Dead Man's Keeper
by Cheryl W
Summary: When the number of Dean Winchester, a supposedly dead serial killer, comes up, Reese and Finch find out how hard it can be to keep a dead man alive. No Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: When the number of Dean Winchester, a supposedly dead serial killer, comes up, Reese and Finch find out how hard it can be to keep a dead man alive.

Author's Notes: To understand this fic, I need you to know a few facts. This takes up after Supernatural's season 8 episode "Southern Comfort", you'll need to remember the father and daughter hunters from the "Adventures in Babysitting" episode 7.11 and the names of the two hunters who sent Sam and Dean to the "Dark side of the moon" in episode 5.16. And yes, I did have to research each of those characters names…because like I spare attention to anyone else but on our lovely boys?!

Another thing you should know, this will mostly be told from Person of Interest POV and sadly, Sam will not be featured heavily in the plot until later chapters. (Sorry Sam girls!)

Whew! I think that's all the boring things I needed to tell you. Hope you enjoy the story…

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Chapter 1

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_You are being watched. The government has a secret system, a machine that spies on you, every hour of every day….._

_The computer picks up a conversation somewhere in New York City….._

"Dean, it's Lee Chambers, they took Krissy."

"Who took her?"

"Hunters. They wanted me to do a job with them and when I said no…"  
"They took Krissy to make you. You know where they are keeping her?"

"They have a warehouse somewhere in the east side of New York City…."

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"Well, we don't have to figure out whether or not the computer gave us a number of someone needing to be saved or about to perpetrate violence," Harold Finch announced to his fellow good Samaritan, John Reese. "The only question is, why is a serial killer's number coming up…when he's already dead."

Coming to stand behind Finch, Reese read aloud some of the information displayed on his friend's computer screen. "Dean Winchester. More than twenty counts of murder spanning seven years. Declared deceased last year." Pulling back, Reese crossed to the mug shot picture of a man younger than he was with short trimmed brown hair and green eyes that Finch had already posted on their board. He had learned the hard way that you couldn't read the heart of evil on a man's face. "Well, there's dead and then there's dead like we are," he drawled.

Finch tilted his head in accession to that fact, though Reese didn't see the gesture from his position. "It was the FBI that declared him dead."

"The CIA declared me dead, Finch. Doesn't make it true," Reese defied, found that that happenstance had been liberating instead of depressing and wondered if Dean Winchester was living under the same relief. He then turned to face Finch, knew the other man had more information for him. He always did.

But instead of information, Finch posed another question. "So you think Winchester somehow faked his own death and the computer caught wind of him?"

"Probably. But like you said, there's no doubt he's the one we need to stop." And it was nice, to have that certainty.

"He's dangerous," Harold warned, his eyes holding John's. He had felt a frisson of fear just reading Winchester's criminal records, found it especially creepy about the grave desecrations, made him take notice of every creak and shift and noise in the uninhabited library before Reese arrived that morning. "He's without conscience. Enjoys the killing." It was rare they came up against true evil and he found that, part of him was loath to put Reese on the killer's trail, even with Reese's exceptional combat skills.

John's eyes darkened and his voice spoke of the shadows his CIA partner said he was a part of. "That's why we need to stop him, Finch. Permanently."

Though the tone, the deadly intent of Reese's words put a shiver down Finch's abused spine, he didn't protest the ex-CIA agent's plan. Somehow found some measure of security it in, that Reese was taking his warning seriously, aimed to stop Winchester before he had a chance to hurt anyone else…including Reese.

"So we have any idea where Winchester is at right now? He's not going to leave an electronic trace, not since he's been declared dead and apparently wants the world to continue to believe that," Reese stated.

"Actually, I think he's gotten bold instead of careful. Before his supposed demise, his pattern was to use fraudulent credit cards, usually in the name of members of rock bands or actors. And I just might have a hit on a card for Tommy Shaw, front man for the band Styx."

John smiled at Harold. "I had no idea you were a '70s rock n roll kind of guy."

Harold shot John a not unkind look and boasted, "There's a lot you don't know about me," before he turned back to the keypad. Punching in a few keys, he confirmed, "Well, a Tommy Shaw did check into the Blue Parrot motel on 23rd and 9th last night."

Already heading for the door, Reese said, "I'll start there." But Finch called out his name with a surprisingly anxious tone. Stopping, Reese turned to face the computer genius.

"Be careful. Don't let down your guard," Harold cautioned, wished he didn't have a photographic memory, that the pictures of all the people that Dean Winchester had killed weren't imprinted on the hard drive of his mind's eye.

"I won't," John Reese vowed, had already determined that, with this particular number, he was going to fall back on his old skill set. Namely, to kill on sight.

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tbc

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Well, anybody on board? I really like Person of Interest and of course, absolutely love Dean and SN so I'm hoping someone out there likes the combination I'm cooking up.

Thanks for reading.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	2. Chapter 2

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Notes: Thanks so much for every awesome word of encouragement you gave me! And since you were so kind, I'm making time today to post this next chapter!

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Chapter 2

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Standing in the empty motel room, Reese activated his ear mic. "If Winchester was here, he's not now. The room's scrubbed clean. I don't think he's planning on coming back, Finch."

"I've been planning for that contingency. I'm accessing the convenience store camera across from the motel right now and …" Reese could hear the familiar sound of Finch's fingers flying across the keyboard before the other man continued. "…there we go. I have a picture of our dead serial killer leaving his room. …and getting into a black car, circa 1960's and the license plate number is CNK-80Q3. He left the motel and headed west."

"Black car, heading west. Not a lot to go on, Harold."

"That's where your set of skills come into play, Mr. Reese."

"I think you're overestimating my abilities."

"Not so far I haven't," Finch said before he ended their connection.

To himself, Reese said, "Well, there's always a first time for everything."

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When it came right down to it, it was pure luck that had Reese spotting Dean Winchester in the New York crowd. Well, that and the fact that Winchester was running down the block like a posse was after him. And he wasn't alone, had a young teenage girl with him, her hand in his as they barreled through the milling crowd of New Yorkers that were intent on getting lunch.

Taking up pursuit, Reese found that he was quickly gaining ground, theorized that Winchester was holding back, pacing himself to keep even with the girl. And he didn't know what to do with that knowledge because it indicated a protective nature in Winchester. Pushing that tidbit to the back of his mind, he saw his prey duck into an alleyway and followed them, only to come up short when the dead end alley was empty.

Cautiously walking down the alley, he eyed up the doors that lined the alley, doors that led to apartments and business enterprises. Doors that were all closed, locked, he determined as he tested each one. Turning as he came to the dead end, he looked above, wondered if there was a fire escape ladder that could have been used. But there was no such explanation for their escape. "Ok, well, unless he's Houdini, he got into one of these locked doors," he surmised aloud, headed for the nearest door, inspected its lock and then moved unto the next. The third door's lock had minute signs of having been picked. "Murderer and expert B&E man, Winchester has a lot of talents up his sleeve," he drawled as he too, picked the lock and entered through the door into a warehouse.

The warehouse was quiet. Apparently whatever labor force worked there didn't do so on a Sunday. But then he heard a voice, a young girl's whispered tone. Quickly, he maneuvered down the corridor, intent on finding the girl and getting her away from Winchester before he could hurt her.

Giving a quick look around a corner, he saw Winchester and the girl, noted that she wasn't talking to Winchester, was instead on the phone but Winchester stood over her, obviously coaching her on what to say. "He said he'll bring me to you. To an abandoned motel out of town."

"City Motel, off of 9," Winchester provided and Reese's gut clenched. '_He's a kidnapper too, is thinking he's about to get his payday. Not happening on my watch.'_

With more anger than rationale, Reese stalked around the corner, leveled his cocked gun at Dean Winchester's head and growled, "Step away from the girl. Now," even as his finger was poised to pull the trigger.

Winchester's head snapped up and he gave him a confused, surprised look before his eyes turned dark with promised retribution. But when the killer moved, it wasn't a step to the right, to grab the girl as a shield, but was two steps forward, toward Reese.

"I will shoot you," Reese lowly announced, wanted to so badly it chilled him.

"You do what you gotta do, but the girl goes free," Winchester angrily negotiated, like he had a chip to play, even as he stepped closer, put himself more firmly between Reese and the girl.

Blindsided by Winchester's words, at the killer's insistence that the girl be allowed to leave, at his protective move to be between him and the girl, Reese began to realize that the situation wasn't what he thought it was. But he didn't have time to properly reassess it before Winchester dove forward, expertly grabbed his gun hand and yanked it up even as he delivered a right cross to his jaw that left his head ringing.

Reese retaliated with a blow to Winchester's gut, heard the whoosh of air leaving the other man. But Winchester didn't try and pull back, instead clung tighter to his arm, forced him back a few steps. '_Away from the girl_,' Reese distractedly realized, before Winchester's elbow glanced off his temple, cut into his brow. He replied with a blow to his opponent's left kidney, was surprised when that garnered a cry of pain from Winchester.

Always taught to exploit a weakness, Reese sailed another fist into Winchester's side, felt the man let out another grunt of pain but it didn't stop Winchester from slamming Reese's hand against the nearest crate, making him loose his grip on his gun. Somewhere he noted the sound of it clanking on the ground.

Now having two freed hands, Reese delivered a right roundhouse to Winchester's jaw, and pushed them both backwards until Winchester's back collided with the corner of a shelving unit.

It seemed to knock the breath out of Winchester, had him clinging to Reese to keep his feet, but even that weakness didn't stop him from headbutting Reese. But it was Winchester's next more that unbalanced the CIA trained fighter.

"Krissy, run!" Winchester unexpectedly shouted, risked a look to the teenage girl, a commanding, imploring look. A look that cost him.

In that break of his opponent's concentration, Reese had reached onto the shelf he had Winchester pinned to, grabbed a wrench and swung it at the other man's head.

Letting go of his opponent, Reese watched as Winchester crumbled to the ground, dead or unconscious, he didn't know which.

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TBC

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Thanks for reading!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	3. Chapter 3

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 3

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The girl, who had not heeded Winchester's order to run, screamed "Dean!" and dropped to her knees beside Winchester. When Reese bent down to retrieve his gun from the warehouse floor, she protectively threw herself over Winchester's inert form and shot Reese a look half way between a threat and a plea, her words filled with the same contradiction. "Don't kill him! _Please_ don't kill him!"

Whatever outcome he expected, it wasn't this. Wasn't this young girl willing to risk her life to save Winchester's, begging him to spare Winchester's life. He was torn between pulling the girl away from Winchester and trying to civilly tell her that she didn't have to be afraid anymore, when another voice echoed in the warehouse.

"Winchester? Come out, come out, where ever you are?"

Detecting the malice in the voice, the threat, Reese leaped forward, grabbed the girl and pulled her back with him into the shadows of the warehouse. Gritted his teeth as the girl bit into the hand he put over her mouth and struggled. "Stay still or we're all dead," he hissed lowly in her ear, was rewarded with her stilling in his hold. With her compliance, he released his hand on her mouth. But when he pulled her back another step, she left out a whispered protest of "Dean?" and fought to be released again, to seemingly go to Winchester's side, to play the man's protector once again.

"I'll take care of whoever that is," Reese quietly vowed and he tugged her around another corner, knew he didn't have her trust as much as her desperate hope that he wasn't lying. Finding a corner in the warehouse blocked off by saw horses, he gave her a light shove, ordered, "Crawl under there, don't come out until I come for you."

But again her defiance flared to life. Yanking her arm out of his grip, she stood there, all of her 4'5" stature humming with stubborn determination. "Not until you promise you won't let anything happen to Dean."

It was not an oath he had ever foreseen having to offer, but one look at her set features and he knew she would go running back to Winchester the second he left her alone. Bending down to be eye level with her, he vowed, "You have my word nothing will happen to him."

"And you won't hurt him again either," she tagged on another condition, now that she was emboldened by her subsequent victory.

Reese almost rolled his eyes but none the less agreed. "Fine," though there was less good sportsmanship in that declaration. It, however, seemed to satisfy the girl because she obediently crawled under the saw horses and tucked herself away.

Then John determinedly stalked toward the voice that was again echoing through the warehouse with another taunt for Winchester to show himself. A voice that was alarmingly close to where he had left Winchester sprawled out on the concrete floor. Picking up his pace to a run, he headed that way fast, wondered how the girl would take it if he failed to keep his word and Winchester died. '_Not well_,' he bitterly concluded.

But when he rounded the corner to where he had left Winchester, to his surprise neither Winchester nor the disembodied voice's owner were there. His head jerked up when Winchester's voice echoed through the warehouse.

"You're not getting the girl back! I'll make sure you choke on your own blood before I let you hurt her!"

'_Back?! Hurt her_!?' Reese thought with dismay, was starting to understand less and less about the situation that he had walked into.

The unknown man's scoffing chuckle filtered to the ceiling. "The girl?! Please, she's not worth chasing after. That job we wanted her daddy to do means nothing compared to you offering yourself to us on a platter."

"Is that what I did? Seems to me like I took out two of your guys, rescued the girl and still have time to catch a Mets game while I'm in town," Winchester boasted.

"Killing your own kind, that's what you're good at, aren't you Winchester?" The other man sneered and Reese, having gained a position only a few feet behind the man, suddenly delayed his attack, wanted to hear what he had to say to Winchester. "Like Walt and Roy.

"Don't lump me in with those friggin' low lives!" Winchester roared, sounding almost like he was drawing closer instead of fleeing from his predator.

"They were my friends! Were hunters, like we are. And you killed them without batting an eyelash, didn't you?!" the other man accused, tightening his grip on the gun, almost looked ready to step back into the shadow as he sensed what Reese did, that Winchester was coming for him.

"What?! I didn't…." but then Winchester broke off his half uttered denial, instead menacingly hissed, "Well, in my defense, they killed me first."

That made the other man snort. "Your whole reputation about being some legendary hunter that can't be killed, comes back to life, that's all crap. And even if it's not, lucky for me, I'm an expert at knowing how to kill things that don't want to die. I'll cut off your head, shoot you in the heart with a silver bullet and then salt and burn your bones."

"You'll go to all that trouble for me!? Awww. I'm touched," Winchester smart-mouthed back, and then Winchester was there, stepping out of the shadows, swinging a pipe aimed for the other man's head. But the man was turning, was raising his gun, pulling the trigger.

Reese was quicker on the draw, his own gun erupted, and the other man crumbled to the ground, a bullet in his thigh. Then kicking out, he sent the man unconscious and then used his foot to kick the man's gun behind him.

Winchester spun to face Reese, hands getting a higher grip on the pipe like it was a baseball bat he was choking up on to hit a homer with. "Where's Krissy?" he venomously demanded, like he thought he was in control of the situation. "If you've hurt her, I will kill you." And Reese didn't doubt his determination to do just that.

Directly behind Reese, Krissy reassured, "I'm alright, Dean," and she went to slip by Reese, go to Winchester but Reese grabbed her by the arm, halted her intent.

Stepping back and drawing the girl, Krissy, with him when Winchester menacingly took a step toward him, Reese warned, gun aimed at the other man's chest, "I think we've done this before and you lost. And I think it unlikely the outcome will be in your favor if we do it again." Reese said as he released Krissy and held up his hand, a hand that was covered in Winchester's blood. "You're hurt, pretty badly. I think it's time we get the cops involved."

Reese didn't plan on what happened next, for Krissy to duck down and grab the discarded gun off the floor, to have the fourteen year old shove it into his back. "You're not calling the cops," she growled, did a fair job of sounding menacingly, especially when she cocked the gun.

Winchester beat him to his comeback, ordered of the girl that was so protective of him, "Krissy, put the gun down!"

Feeling like he was caught in a family squabble, Reese compliantly raised his hands, calmly directed at Krissy, "How about an ambulance then? He's lost a lot of blood." Hoping her protective roll would lead her to make a good decision.

Krissy didn't take the bait. "He's a lot tougher than he looks."

"You don't have to count on him anymore," Reese reassured, didn't know the type of hold, type of mind games Winchester had played on the girl but wanted to show her it was ending now. That she could be free, safe. "I'm here to get you somewhere safe."

His offer, however, elicited a snort of derision from her. "Safe?! With you?! I'm safer with Dean than with anybody else except for my dad."

"He might have told you that…" John gently rationalized but Krissy cut him off.

"He didn't have to. Wait… you actually think he kidnapped me or something?!" surprise and understanding tinting her tone. "You got it wrong. He got me back after I was taken."

Reese's eyes flew to Winchester at the girl's declaration, saw the other man give a half smile and a shrug.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Winchester jeered.

Before Reese could formulate a response, the sound of the warehouse door being kicked open stole all their attentions. Using that distraction, Reese spun around, snagged the gun from Krissy's hold and fluently swung his arm around to aim the gun barrel at Winchester as the man took a step toward him. Eyes finding Winchester's, Reese grimly speculated, "I'm assuming that's more people looking to kill you, who won't care if Krissy gets hurt in the crossfire."

Drawing to his full height, Winchester commanded Reese with a nod to Krissy. "Get her out of here. Her dad will be at the old City Motel on 9th street soon to pick her up."

"No!" Krissy shouted, suddenly reached out, not to attack Reese but to grip his hand, tightly. As she looked up to the suit clad man she imploringly reminded, "You gave me your word that nothing would happen to Dean. You promised!"

Reese almost grimaced, hated that he honestly didn't know what to do next, that what he wanted to do sounded crazy, because wanting to protect Krissy, a child, that was practically inborn in him, but having a desire to protect a murderer like Dean Winchester, that was downright disturbing. Pretending that he was only doing it for the kid, he lowered his gun from Winchester's chest. "I may regret this .." he muttered under his breath. "Come on," he bade the next moment, reaching out for Krissy's hand but the girl skittered away from him, went loyalty to Winchester. But instead of grabbing Winchester's arm, she cinched herself to his side, slid one of her little arms around his waist and stubbornly sought to give support to the wounded man. And her perceptiveness wasn't lost on Reese, could see what she had, not only the blood coating Winchester's temple and dripping down his right cheek from the blow he had given him with the wrench but the man's utter paleness and his half step, stumble to keep his balance.

Hearing voices from the warehouse's entrance decided Reese next course of action. "Let me take him," he ordered of Krissy, before he stepped forward, and without permission, ducked down and pulled Winchester over his shoulder. At first Winchester's only comeback was a choked off grunt of agony but it was soon followed by a litany of curses and demands to be put down.

Reese only tightened his grip on the wounded man, asked of the man draped over his shoulder, "We need to get out of here, fast. Is your pride more important than saving Krissy's life?"

"Just watch where you put your hands Tarzan?' was Winchester's mumbled reply which John took as the younger man's strange version of giving consent.

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TBC

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Can't thank everyone enough for the wonderful reviews! I'm loving each and every one. Thanks for reading.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	4. Chapter 4

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 4

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Somewhere between Reese getting Winchester and Krissy to the car and arriving at the motel Finch rented as a safe house, the wounded man had dropped into unconsciousness. Was a limp form in the back of Reese's car when he opened the rear door. Reese didn't miss the sight of blood dripping from the seat to the floor, pooling there in a dark stain. He was about to try and convince Krissy that Winchester needed a hospital when the girl in question shoved him aside, leaned into the open doorway and gave Winchester's knee a shake. "Dean? Dean!" she uttered as a command, but there was unflappable certainty there that Winchester would respond to her, wouldn't let her down even as he was seemingly bleeding out. "You gotta get up."

To Reese's amazement, Winchester stirred, pried his eyes open and managed a smile for the teenage girl. "You're pushy."

It earned him a wide, relieved smile from Krissy. "Someone needs to keep you in line since Sam's not here," she teased, but soon frowned when something akin to pain and regret passed across Winchester's nearly translucent features. "Sam is…he's Ok, right?" she tremulously asked.

"Sam's fine," came Winchester's firm, if somewhat gruff, comeback and then the man was sitting up, was using the door to lever himself to his feet. He put up a halting hand when Reese approached. "I got it from here," he stated, proved it by only swaying a bit before he found his balance.

Reese pointed to the open motel room door a few paces ahead but his hand darted out as Winchester's third step was a stumble. But Krissy got there before he could make contact, pulled Winchester's arm over her thin shoulders and steered the man for the room.

As he watched, Reese noted that Winchester wasn't allowing Krissy to take any of his weight, was simply using her as a compass to keep him on course. The duo confused him, like the man at the warehouse with a bullet in his thigh had. These weren't the actions, the _reactions_ of a cold hearted serial killer. But in the same breath, when Winchester had threatened the other man who tracked him to the warehouse or threatened to kill _him_ if he hurt Krissy, there was no doubt in Reese's mind that Winchester would do it, that he had blood on his hands. Apparently that of "Walt and Roy" according to the man who had tried to kill Winchester.

'_But I have blood on my hands too'_ Reese couldn't help compare, knew that his hands, his soul was far from clean. But Finch had still sought him out, thought he had some good in him. '_Like Krissy believes there is good in Winchester.'_

And at times like these, John felt relieved that he had someone to be his moral compass. He called that person now.

"Ah, Mr. Reese, I was wondering if you were making any progress on tracking down our serial killer's whereabouts," Finch greeted across the cell lines.

Reese unconsciously flinched at the "serial killer" label Finch fixed to Winchester. "Yeah, you could say I have made progress. He's actually with me. And he's not alone."

There was a startled pause at that news. Then Finch replied back with more of his trustworthy facts. "The file did talk about Dean having a brother. They usually killed together."

Opening up the truck, John pulled out his own privately stocked first aid kit before crossing over to the motel room. Coming to stand in the doorway, he watched Krissy help Winchester, not to the bed but to the bathroom, saw Winchester shut her out with the bathroom door. Closing the motel room door, he said to Finch, with a pronounced drawl, "Nnnoooo. Not his brother." Then he exhaled, knew what he was about to say next wasn't going to be well received but could no longer deny it. "Harold, we might have been wrong about Winchester, about his part in all this."

"I don't understand," Finch confessed, worry ebbing through his tone.

"Neither do I," Reese admitted. "But I think I'm going to need your help getting the girl back to her dad."

"Girl? What girl?"

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Having given Finch the motel address, Reese entered the room, noted that Winchester was still in the bathroom and Krissy was nervously pacing the carpet. But she came up short when he closed the door, like she was still uncertain if she could trust him, wanted to be left alone with him.

But then, as if she had made a decision, she came to him, offered up something that she had had clutched in her hand: a cellphone. "It's Dean's," she announced, blushed as Reese's eyebrow rose in surprised reprimand. "Just listen to the message. The guys that had me, they called Dean, threatened him when they knew he was in town looking for me."

Taking the phone from her small hand, Reese activated the most recent voice message, put it on speaker. A male voice filtered through the small speakers.

"Come on, Dean. I didn't mean I was quitting on you. Just call me, tell me where to meet up with you," the man beseeched, before sighing. "Alright well…I'll be waiting for your call."

"Not that message," Krissy said and John accessed another message from earlier that day. It was the same voice but a lot more pissed and frustrated. "Dean, stop being a stubborn jerk and call me back."

By the next message, the voice had reverted back to pleading. "When I said…move on or I will…" There was a crack in the voice when it continued, "I didn't mean…We both said some things we didn't mean. Standard Winchester communication, right?" but there was a tremble in the light façade of laughter. Exiting that message before it continued, Reese gave Krissy a raised eyebrow demand for answers.

Shooting a worried look to the still closed bathroom door, Krissy nearly whispered, "It's his brother. They have ….issues."

"Sounds like it," Reese drawled, his judgment earning him a glare from the teenager.

"The message would have been from last night," Krissy supplied, wondered how Dean would take it when he found out she had aired his and Sam's private conversation to this stranger…or that she had listened to them. She didn't think he would like it one bit.

When Reese selected the message from the prior night, a new male voice piped into the room. "Winchester, heard you had gone to ground for the past year. Imagine my surprise when my boys in the warehouse called me, said you paid them a house call, thinking to rescue Chamber's smart mouthed brat. So come on, find me. Fair warning, though. Now that you're sticking your head out of your hole, I plan on shooting it off. Maybe the girl will get to watch, earn her education the hard way like we all had to."

Reese felt that familiar hum of fury singing along his veins at the threat, not only to Winchester but to the fourteen year old girl.

"They threatened to kill him and he came to get me anyway," Krissy heatedly pointed out. "He's not the bad guy you think he is. So I don't know what you want with him…or me but …."

"To help," Reese calmly supplied.

"Why?" Krissy shot back, distrust shining in her eyes.

"Can't someone just help because you need it?" Reese asked, wondered what else the girl had been through in her life to breed distrust at such a young age.

But there was a melting of her resolve then, a shifting of her feet. "My father helps people…so does Dean and his brother."

"Helps them how?" Reese prodded was hopeful that he could piece together who and what Dean Winchester was.

"Interrogating a fourteen year old girl, nice," Winchester bitingly drawled as he leaned in the open doorway of the bathroom, his face mostly void of blood but blotched from a harsh, wet scrubbing, his hands tinged red from his own blood and his body slightly trembling.

"I wouldn't have to if you truthfully answer my questions," Reese replied.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Winchester muttered back, almost sounding disheartened.

"I might," Reese returned, knew he had more of a grasp on how grey the world really was, more than most people ever would.

But Winchester shook his head, wasn't willing to trust him that far. Turning his attention to Krissy, he instructed, "Call your dad, tell him to pick you up here."

"I have someone coming to take her to the City Motel," Reese stated, found himself the recipient of two sets of wary stares. "You said her dad would be there waiting for her."

Turning to Dean, Krissy announced, "I'm not going anywhere without you." Even as Dean declared, "You should go with him." When Krissy's features turned into stubborn resolve, Dean pushed off the doorframe, came to stand in front of the teenager. "Krissy, you and your father should get as far away from me as possible, soon as you can. This isn't your life anymore."

"Maybe you could stop too," Krissy said, her tone hopeful.

Winchester gave her a sad smirk. "It's too late for me, kiddo. 'Sides, who else would be around to rescue the other damsels in distress like you."

"I was no damsel in distress," Krissy shot back around a smile.

"Ah, yeah, you were. And my standard fee for that type of work is pretty steep," Winchester joked with the girl, an affectionate twinkle in his eyes.

But there was remembered fear in Krissy's eyes suddenly, as if it was fully hitting her again how scared she had been, how glad she was to be saved by Dean. Without preamble, she threw herself at Winchester and wrapped her arms around him tightly, drew in a shaky breath that was part sob.

To his credit, Winchester bit back the cry of pain at the rough handling, didn't protest Reese's steadying hand on his shoulder, simply returned Krissy's hug with relief and fondness. Reassured, "You're ok, now. Nobody's gonna hurt you. You'll be with your dad soon and before you know it, you'll be old enough to apply to Stanford. Just don't put me or Sam down as a reference."

Nodding against Dean's chest, Krissy sniffled, "Don't tell my dad I cried like a girl."

Dean chuckled, bowed his chin to rest it on top of her head. "It will be our little secret." Then he raised his eyes to Reese, as if he was exacting the same promise from him.

"I won't say anything," Reese vowed as he watched Krissy regain her composure and pull back from Dean. But a horrified look entered her eyes as she turned to Reese and raised her hand, now slick with blood. "Help him," she implored, right before Winchester's body succumbed to its trauma and the wanted man blacked out.

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When Reese answered his knock at the motel room door with blood on his hands and staining his shirt, Harold drew in a ragged breath, worriedly exclaimed, "You're bleeding!?" as he reached out, grabbed his friend's arm.

"Not my blood, Harold," John corrected, uncocking his gun and pulling his friend into the room even as he spared an inspecting glance out to the parking lot. Not seeing anyone to raise his suspicions, he closed the door, found that Harold hadn't moved very far into the room, was standing stock still, like he hadn't seen a man bleeding from a bullet wound before.

"I would introduce you to our client, but he's presently unconscious," John said as he sidestepped Finch and came back to Winchester's side, who was face down on the bed. Dropping his gun on the night stand, he replaced Krissy's hand with his own on the bandage on Winchester's lower back, scowled as the blood soaked through the newest bandage like it had the last.

"Finch, this is Krissy. She needs to get to her father. He'll be at the closed City Motel on 9th street," he stated without bothering to look back at Finch, knew he didn't have to, that most of their conversations were held through ear wigs, phones, in the same room but without a lot of eye contact. It wasn't their nature…and wasn't needed for their brand of communication.

But Krissy immediately protested, "I'm not leaving Dean!"

Knowing that he needed to be firm, that he needed Krissy to see reason, John abandoned his ministrations to Winchester, instead grabbed Krissy's hands in his, crouched down and met her eyes head on. "Krissy, you said your dad and Dean, they help people. Well so do I. And I'm pretty good at it. But I can't protect you _and_ Dean, I just can't. And it seems, whoever had you, they want Dean dead, pretty badly."

"Seriously, Mr. Reese," Finch interrupted with a scowl, didn't know what his friend thought he was doing, scaring the child like that.

But Krissy coldly confirmed Reese's statement. "I heard them leave Dean that message, heard them talking. They were bragging about how they were going to hurt Dean…before they killed him."

Finch paled at the young girl's statement, was starting to understand Reese's conflict of interest on this particular job.

Reese solemnly nodded. "That kind of hate, it doesn't just stop. Someone has to stop it."

Eyes flickering to Dean before settling again on Reese, Krissy breathlessly asked, "But you can stop it, right?"

Reese smiled. "I promised to keep him safe and I'm going to do that. But I need to know you're safe first. _Dean_ will need to know that before he lets me protect him."

Krissy snorted. "He'll never let you protect him. He's too much of a macho jerk," her eyes filling with affectionate tears.

Reese gave a gentle knowing smirk in return. "I'm familiar with the type."

"Takes one to know one?" Krissy taunted and Reese nodded. Then she jerked her head to Finch. "Who's he?"

"He's a friend, someone that I trust. He'll take you to your dad."

But indecision still warred in the girl's eyes. "If something happens to him, I'll hunt you down, I will."

"And kill me, I got it," Reese finished but there was no mockery, nothing but seriousness in his tone. He knew the girl, as young as she was, wasn't making an idle threat, any more than Winchester had. That whatever bond was between the supposed serial killer and the fourteen year old girl, it was strong, invoked loyalty. "But you won't need to. I'll patch him up and stop the men who want to kill him."

"And then you'll let him go, let him walk away, won't turn him over to the police?" and there was hesitation in her tone, disbelief, distrust in the look she leveled at him.

It was the vow John was hoping she didn't make him pledge. No matter how it appeared to him, Dean Winchester was involved somehow in twenty murders. "Krissy I…" he stammered.

"If you can't promise me that, I'm not going anywhere. You'll have to arrest me too," Krissy boldly countered, was heading back to Dean's side when Reese snagged her arm.

"You really have that much faith in him?" John asked, wondered at the strength of this child. A child who seemed so unwilling to trust, yet she put her total faith in a man more known for taking lives than saving them.

Without hesitation, Krissy declared, "Yes, I do. And you should too."

"Ok. I will let him walk away," John conceded, didn't know he was going to do it until the words tumbled out of him.

"Mr Reese! I think you need to consider…" Finch protested, but Reese shot him a look, cut him off with a quiet, "I'm going to keep my word to her, Finch." Reese could see his partner's face blanch and knew he was again the cause for his friend's high blood pressure.

Turning back to Krissy, Reese said, "I'll tell Dean to call you when all this is over. That way you'll know that you don't have to track me down and slit my throat in my sleep," smiled to make the words sound less harsh.

Krissy gave a small smile. Then she stepped around Reese, reached out, gave Dean's limp hand a squeeze. Then she decisively pulled away and came to stand before Finch. "Ok, let's get on the road. My dad will be worried."

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Out from under the watchful, innocent eyes of Krissy, Reese got his real good look at Winchester's wound, could see that it was a bullet wound, that the bullet had caught him in the lower back, just under the ribs and was still lodged in there, hopefully hadn't decided to ricochet through Winchester's internal organs. "You put up quite a fight with a bullet wound," he spoke aloud to his unconscious companion. "Guess Krissy wasn't exaggerating when she said you were tougher than you looked. For both our sakes, I hope you're strong enough to not die on me and break that little girl's heart."

Rummaging through his first aid kit, he pulled out a needle and a vial. Filling the syringe, he injected Winchester with the morphine, didn't need the other man coming to while he was trying to retrieve the bullet from his side. Then, with his patient drugged into submission, he removed Winchester's shirt. But he instantly stilled at the sight of the numerous scars that marked the younger man's chest and back. Some scars that were recent and some that were years old.

Whatever life Dean Winchester lived, it wasn't a safe one.

'_We're more kindred spirits than I thought, Winchester_,' John conceded, and if his touch was gentler after that revelation, after tracing the freshest ragged scar on Winchester's back, he didn't recognize it.

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TBC

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Thanks to all my amazing reviewers! I love hearing your thoughts and theories and just smile like a giddy fool over your compliments! And thanks to everyone out there for reading this story.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	5. Chapter 5

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 5

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Claiming a seat on the bed at Winchester's waist, Reese was about to check to make sure the bullet wound wasn't bleeding through the bandage when he suddenly found a knife pressed against his throat, courtesy of his patient. "So you're awake," he said as Winchester did a half roll on the bed and sat up, expertly kept the knife pressed to his throat the entire time.

"Where's Krissy?" Winchester rasped, eyes glittering with lethal intent.

"With her dad." Reese then dug Winchester's phone from his pocket, held it out to the other man. "Call him."

Then there was a stare down but Reese had faith that Winchester cared more about Krissy's wellbeing than his own. Winchester proved that conviction was right a moment later when he lifted the knife and gave Reese a shove backwards that almost toppled him off the bed. Not releasing his grip on the knife, Winchester shuffled back on the bed until he was leaning against the headboard, warily watched Reese as he dialed Lee Chamber's number.

"Is Krissy with you?" Dean demanded before the man on the other end of the line even offered a greeting.

"Yes, she's with me," Lee Chambers declared with heartfelt joy and gratitude. "I don't know how to thank you. Wait, she wants to talk to you."

"Dean? Are you alright?"

Dean closed his eyes in relief when Krissy spoke. "Me, I'm fine," he boasted, didn't want Krissy to spend another second worrying about him.

"That guy, Reese, he made me leave, promised he wouldn't hurt you, that he would protect you," Krissy said in a rush, her own guilt and fear making her sound like the young girl she was.

Eyeing Reese, Dean drawled, "He did, huh?"

To Dean's surprise, she gave her own order to him with her next breath. "Dad and I are on our way to the motel to get you. Just stay there, don't tell him we're coming."

Even if Dean would have welcomed her "rescue" attempt, it was futile. The room he had passed out in wasn't the one he woke up in, was a hotel room that was on a much grander scale that he ever frequented. "No, you and your dad just get out of town. You left me in good hands, Krissy. Reese and I will be Ok." Seeing the smirk on "Reese's" face at his words, he fought the urge to give the man a gesture showing him just how much he didn't trust him. His words were for Krissy's benefit only, he didn't trust the other man any farther than he could kick him.

Her voice trembling a bit, Krissy worriedly said, "You sure because…you were bleeding…shot."

"Flesh wound. I got hurt worse trying to save Sammy from a pretty stalker last year," Dean downplayed, wanted the worried tremor in the girl's voice to vanish, needed it to for his own peace of mind.

"Well, if you need me or my dad…"

"To come save me again? Nah, my ego can't handle any more blows," Dean joked, though he felt self-conscious doing it with such an attentive audience.

But it earned him a laugh from Krissy, made the sacrifice worth it when she teased back, "Your ego needs to take a few hits."

"Ouch."

"Dean?" She called out, her tone serious again.

"Yeah?"

"You were right last time…you're a pretty awesome guy," Krissy praised.

"And don't you forget it," Dean sallied back, warmth flowing through him at her compliment.

"So you…you're gonna call me later, right? When those guys are ….taken care of and you're safe," hope and need tripping up her tough girl façade.

Dean almost snorted at the notion of him ever being safe, didn't because he wanted Krissy to keep whatever innocence she could, that she had left. "I think I can do that. See ya, kiddo."

"Bye Dean."

Dropping the phone onto the bed covers, Dean faced Reese, clarified, "Just because I told her you and I are bosom buddies, doesn't mean we are."

"I know that," Reese replied, coming to lean against the room's bureau at the end of Winchester's bed. "Trust doesn't come easily for us."

"Us?" Dean repeated, indignation in the one word. "You think you know me now?" Then he started to slide to the edge of the bed in preparation of getting up. He pointed threateningly to Reese when the other man pushed off the bureau and seemed to be heading his way to help him. "Stay back."

Reese halted mid-way to Winchester but worriedly watched the other man's slow, painful process to get to the edge of his bed, to make his legs move, get his feet to settle on the floor in preparation to take his weight. "I know you're not what everyone else thinks you are. That you're got the scars to prove life is pain and both of us rather be helping others than getting help ourselves."

Winchester shot him a narrow eyed glare. "You get all that from doing a prevy pat down while I was unconscious."

Reese couldn't hold back a smile at Winchester's humor. "It was either me patching you up or Krissy."

Worry flew into Winchester's gaze. "You didn't let her…."

But Reese shook his head. "I took the bullet out after she left. I didn't think she needed to witness that."

"You think?!" Winchester sarcastically snapped.

Reese wasn't irked by the man's comeback, instead his look got kinder at the other man's protectiveness for Krissy. "I also learned more about you from your phone messages."

"My messages are my business," Winchester snapped back, twisting around to reach back for the phone. Only his body protested that motion, shot agony from his side through every nerve center he had. He gritted his teeth through it though, didn't want to show weakness, well, _more_ weakness to his captor.

Reese's hands fisted, ached to steady Winchester when the younger man looked ready to pass out from the pain. But then he gave a careless shrug, elaborated, "There were three messages from people thanking you for saving their lives."

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The first had been a young man, not so far out of puberty that his voice didn't have the essence of change. "Dean, hey it's Kevin. I didn't say it before but…thanks. For you know, saving my life…and my mom's. She was…it was a stupid risk she took and we almost…well I think we all know how things were going to turn out for me if you hadn't showed up. So I..I was wrong, really wrong about what I said before, you know, that once people aren't useful to you….Well, you could have died trying to save my bacon, risked …everything and I …I knew I owed you an apology and thanks. So…well, bye."

The second message had been another man, this one older with a southern accent. "Hey, just checking in making sure your brother didn't decide to use that knife he wanted to use on me on you instead. So I get the whole…we can't hang together. I do. Makes what you did for me, you coming and standing beside me, saving my worthlessly life, again, even a bigger deal. So, brother, if you ever _ever _need me, just call and I'll come, no questions asked. Alright then, stay safe Dean."

The final message was from a woman. "I'm not even sure if this number's good anymore but…you left so soon, you and your brother and I never got to say thank you. No one else could have done what you did and you…you saved my family's lives. So…I know it doesn't seem like enough to say but … thank you."

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Winchester shrugged that compliment off, mumbled "wrong numbers," his eyes anywhere but on Reese.

"I'll bet," Reese drawled, not believing that for a second. "Then there were seven messages from some guy who sounded awfully desperate to just hear your voice. Krissy said it was your brother, Sam."

That got Winchester's head snapping to him. "Leave Sam out of this!" he bit out as he stood up and immediately felt all the blood rush to his head and the room tilt on him.

Sprinting forward, Reese grabbed hold of Winchester before he toppled again to the floor and levered him down to sit on the mattress. He slid his hand behind the younger man's neck and gave it a gentle squeeze, hoping to anchor Winchester to the here and now, not really relishing the idea of the man passing out on him again. "Whoa. You're not ready to take on the world just yet."

Dean wanted to push the other man out of his personal space, hated that instead he was clutching onto the man's arm, using him to keep himself upright. He bowed his head, let it rest on his own heaving chest, willing the spots to stop flashing in his head. "Why didn't you turn me over to the guys chasing me? They'd be pretty grateful."

Reese smirked, couldn't quite get a handle on Winchester's personality yet. "You trying to _convince_ me to sell you out?" he drawled with mirth.

"Just curious why you're not," Dean replied, still not able to raise his throbbing head from its bowed position.

"Same reason I'm not dropping you off at the police station," John began, could feel the tension zing through Winchester at his words. "Because I don't think you're the sadist serial killer your police report claims that you are."

Steeling himself against the pain, Dean raised his head until his eyes met Reese's. "And why's that? You psychic, read my aura?!" he sneered, didn't trust mercy, knew it usually came with conditions he didn't have the currency to pay.

"Nope. Just trusting my gut," John admitted with a small smile.

Winchester's pain filled eyes narrowed. "That can get you killed."

And Reese knew Winchester wasn't threatening him, was simply stating a hard learned truth. "I know." But he wasn't going to change his mind, couldn't explain why, just knew that it would be the wrong thing to do, to turn Winchester in, to let the man's rap sheet be his truth. "So let's make sure I didn't lie to Krissy when I promised her that I'll keep you safe. Tell me everything you can about the men trying to kill you."

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Winchester, _Dean,_ as he insisted he be called, wasn't telling him everything, Reese knew that without much soul searching. But if what the other man was omitting was worth knowing, that was yet to be determined. For now, he had gotten Dean to swallow some pain pills and lay back down. That was a victory of sorts. That and the fact that the man hadn't slapped his hand away when he gently rolled him over and checked the stitches on the bullet wound again. Dean had endured it in quiet misery, his face sheening with sweat and his jaw clenched at the agony.

It had made John lay a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder when his inspection was done, quietly order, "Try and get some rest. I'll keep watch."

Knew a measure of trust had been bestowed on him when Winchester's breathing evened out a few minutes later into sleep.

John shushed Harold before the man said more than "well I …" as he let him into the motel room. Ushering his partner to the other adjoining motel room, he closed the door most of the way, left it ajar so he could hear the slightest movement in the other room. "So you got the girl safely back to her dad."

"Yes, I did my part. I didn't expect you to move Winchester to another safe house, actually thought he would be in Carter's custody by now, heading for a lifetime behind prison bars, if not the death penalty," Finch retorted, his disapproval of Reese's current actions clear.

"Harold, he didn't kidnap that girl, he _saved_ her from her kidnappers. And there are messages on his phone of people _thanking_ him for saving their lives. Not so different than the messages we get," Reese compared.

"Oh what he does is wholly different from what we do. It's in living color, him murdering people, John," Finch objected, voice rising, concern growing at his friend's uncertainty about Winchester's morality.

"Finch, I've put my trust in you and now I'm asking you to trust me back," John earnestly requested.

"No, you're asking me to trust a serial killer who has been devious enough to fake his own death- twice!" Harold countered, blood pressure skyrocketing.

"He's not what they say he is, Harold," John demurred, wanting his friend to see in Winchester what he did.

"Just because he protected a little girl, it doesn't mean he's not evil, capable of evil. Every serial killer knew how to love someone, or at the very least, a pet."

John rubbed a hand over his mouth, didn't know how to convince Harold of something he just felt in his soul. "I can't explain it but I know he's not evil."

Harold sighed, could read the trust, the anguish in his usually emotionless partner. "And if you're wrong, we'll have let him continue his killing spree and you'll most likely be his first new victim," he stated, poking a finger in Reese's chest to make his point, to stress his personal worry for his friend's safety, a worry that outweighed all the rest.

Sensing that Harold might be softening, Reese gave a small smile, drawled, "Well, then you can put 'I told you so' on my grave marker."

Finch let out a huff of air. "You're not budging on this, are you?"

"No," John answered, steely resolve glimmering in his eyes.

"Fine. Well, then I guess I'll go back to the office, run those names Winchester gave you and figure out how best to save the life of a dead serial killer," Finch drily outlined.

Reese gave Harold's shoulder a squeeze. "Thanks."

"I'm not sure if I hope we _live_ to regret this or not," Finch mumbled as he gave a look to the unmoving form of Dean Winchester on his way out of the motel room.

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TBC

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My lovely reviewers, thanks so much for making this such a fun story to share with you all!

Thanks for reading!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	6. Chapter 6

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 6

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"Mr Reese, some men who definitely don't look like the hotel's usual clientele just entered the lobby. I've not been able to confirm IDs on them but I'm betting they'll soon be stopping by for an unannounced visit," Harold informed via John's ear wig.

Instantly John was on his feet stalking for the bed, "Thanks Harold," he said before he reached out, had barely touched Dean's arm before the younger man's eyes flew open, settled on him with surprising intensity for having just come out of a drug enhanced nap. "It's time to relocate."

Without a word, Winchester started to push himself upright, was aided in the endeavor by Reese's grip on his forearm. Dean caught his jacket as Reese tossed it to him. Then he was struggling to get his shoes on, pull his jacket over his torso, which was bare except for the bandage wrapped around his waist, as quietly and as effectively as he could being as wounded and weak as he was. But he marshaled through the pain, got the tasks complete, looked up to see Reese was there, gun in hand and watching him with something akin to respect.

Noting that Dean had gotten himself ready for travel faster and quieter than he expected, Reese helped the wounded man gain his feet. Keeping his hand coiled around Dean's right bicep, he tugged his charge behind him as he headed for the door. Brought them both to a halt as he looked through the peephole then cautiously opened the door, found the hallway void of life. He made sure his grip on Winchester was secure, that the wounded man was directly behind him, was shielded by him as he stepped out of the room, started traversing the hallway, his goal the two elevators. Silently, he prayed that he could call an elevator before the men who were here to kill Winchester arrived because he didn't think Winchester would make it down flight after flight of stairs. He cursed Finch a moment for thinking the thirtieth floor was a great safe house location. "Are you feeling lucky?"

"I'm more of a bad luck kinda guy," Dean retorted, hated that his breath rasped out of him like he had run a friggin' mile with a Wendigo after him.

Hitting the down button to call the elevator with the butt of his gun, Reese pulled back, leaned his shoulder tight against the wall, used his other hand to maneuver Winchester behind him, ever behind him. Then, aiming his gun at the elevator doors, he waited. His charge was less patient.

Detecting that Dean was taking a step away from the wall that he hadn't authorized, John commanded, without tearing his eyes from the still closed elevator doors, "Stay behind me." And with the grip he had maintained on Dean's bicep, he started to steer Winchester back in position.

"Dude, stop with the manhandling! And stop treating me like I'm four!" Dean hissed, his fingers trying unsuccessfully to uncinch Reese's grip on his arm. "Give me a gun and I'll take care of myself."

"Really," Reese drawled, a hint of disbelief in his composed tone. Releasing his grip on Dean's bicep he latched onto the man's wrist, raised Winchester arm. "Show me your hand."

Complying more out of confusion than obedience, Dean held his hand out. But instantly knew he had walked right into Reese's trap when he noted how much his hand was shaking, knew that was the point Reese had wanted to make.

Fisting his hand, he didn't bother trying to free if from the other man's grip, already knew he couldn't.

Not wanting to embarrass Dean further over something the wounded man couldn't help, Reese slid his hand free of Winchester's wrist, noted the appendage was quickly pulled back, hidden, like some failure. Didn't say what he was thinking, that it would be a tactical error to give the weakened Winchester a gun.

"Fine, I still have my knife," Dean growled, grimacing, nearly blacking out as he bent down and pulled it out of his boot.

"Which they will probably take away and use on you," Reese couldn't help but darkly predict, would do no good for Winchester to over-estimate his own strength right then, could have some very dire consequences that Reese found he really didn't want to happen.

"Wow, you're a real ego booster," Dean grumbled, trembling hand tightening around the knife's hilt.

Before Reese could make a rejoinder, the elevator doors slowly parted. Relief inflated Reese's lungs when it revealed an empty elevator car. Hurriedly reclaimed his hold on Dean, he drew Winchester forward, nearly shoved him into the elevator before he entered himself.

The elevator doors were closing when Reese heard the ding of the other elevator in the hallway arriving. Punching the "close door" button with force, he cursed its slow response. He knew that their luck wasn't holding when the handle of a cut off shotgun swung through the door, knocked the gun from his hand and caused the elevator car doors to start to retract.

Always favoring being on the offensive, Reese sent a kick through the parting doors that caught the front man mid chest, tumbled him backwards. Without sparing a look to Dean, he ordered, "Get out of here!" even as he punched the 'close door' button again. Then he barreled through the closing elevator doors, was going to hold off the three men, do everything he could to not let them reach Dean, would give the other man as much time as he could to make his escape.

Laying into the three men with punches, kicks, elbows, he soon realized that they might not be soldiers, were not trained in the same skills he was, but they fought with their own brute, all too effective style, did not crumble under his strikes or back down. He felt the air knocked out of him as two of them slammed him back against the wall, took turns landing blows.

Then, to his surprise, one man gave a surprised gasp, reflected a horrified look and then sank to the ground. He didn't take time to understand it, instead tossed his remaining opponent forward, into the glass picture frame holding some abstract art on the hallway wall. The man dropped unconscious to the floor.

Turning, he saw that Winchester was in the hallway and immersed in his own battle, was trying to keep the last man from getting the upper hand in their struggle, was fighting to keep the muzzle of a gun from coming to rest against his temple. Reese joined the fray, bent the man's gun holding hand back brutally, heard the bone break before he unleashed a roundhouse punch that knocked the man out cold.

"I told you to get out of here," Reese growled, rare anger emerging as he seized Dean by the shoulders and halting the wounded man's slide down the wall before it ended up with him on the floor. Felt a desire to give the man a shake, to knock some survival instincts into his concussioned head.

"And miss all the fun," Dean wheezily wisecracked with a smile that didn't come across as anything but weary.

"And Finch thinks I don't know what fun is," Reese grumbled as he supported Winchester across the body littered floor to the elevator whose doors reopened the second he pushed the down button. Escorting his charge inside, he pushed the close door button, was glad that it was successful this time. Herding Dean to the left, so he could lean against the elevator wall, Reese was already planning their next move. "I'm not sure if there are more in the lobby. Would they risk making a move in such a public place?"

"No. Low key is the watch word for hunters," Dean answered, knew that, as blood thirsty as the men were, they knew the real dangers of getting popped for their crimes, had all seen the inside of a jail cell one time or another and didn't want to make it their final resting place.

Giving his companion a measuring stare, Reese notified, "Some time you're going to tell me all about "hunters". Then as he noted they were approaching the lobby, he assessed Winchester, knew that the man wouldn't pass muster in the lobby crowd as disheveled as he was, not with his bare chest exposed. "We have to get you a little more presentable," Reese announced, as he set to zip up Dean's leather jacket, wasn't surprised when his hands were roughly pushed away before the zipper was mid- way up.

"Personal space, you hear of it," Dean groused, using his own trembling hands to finish, albeit painfully slow, the task Reese had started. When the zipper was nearly up to his chin, he turned, used the glass in the elevator walls to check out his reflection, to wipe the blood from his cut lip and try to tramp down the wild spikey strands of his hair with his hand, mostly unsuccessfully.

When the elevator door opened, Reese was protectively planted in front of Dean.

"You make a great door," Dean grumbled, meaning to step around the suit clad man who had a serious hero complex. He side stepped away when Reese made as if to reach for him. "Dude, I swear to God, you try and hold my hand, go all Costner "Bodyguard" on me, I will deck you, bullet wound or no bullet wound."

A slow, respectful smile pulled onto Reese's lips. "Have it your way. But if you pass out, I will have to carry you out of the building."

"Over my dead body," Dean railed back, purposefully stalked out of the elevator ahead of Reese.

And Reese let the other man retain his dignity, but was only a few paces behind Winchester, eyes scanning the lobby, looking for threats, ready to act within a heartbeat if something didn't seem right to him, Winchester's pride be danged.

They made it out of the lobby without incident. But Reese snagged Dean's arm as the man made a right turn on the sidewalk.

"Hands…" Dean began to protest but Reese calmly interjected.

"Finch's provided curb side service." Reese nodded to the dark sedan and the bespectacled driver he knew so well and yet hardly at all.

Dean didn't shake off his hold, or even protest when Reese opened the back door for him. Shutting the door when he knew Winchester was safely in the car's interior, Reese then climbed into the front passenger seat. He gave Finch an approving look. "Great timing, Finch."

"I take it you're both in one piece, more or less" Finch replied, eyes scanning his friend, scowling at the red blotches on John's face that would morph into bruises if they weren't iced soon.

Reese didn't answer, instead turned around to look behind them as Finch pulled away from the curb. But he didn't see anyone taking up pursuit. Then his eyes landed on Winchester. The younger man had his arm braced against his waist and his face was pinched with pain. "Any guesses on how they keep finding us?"

Dean gave a tired snort. "They track things for a living."

Reese frowned, didn't quite like that description, nor was he able to make sense of what the other man in the warehouse had boasted, about his ability to kill things that didn't want to die, some nonsense about a silver bullet to the heart like they were on a werewolf hunt from some cheesy black and white movie. "Well, right now they're tracking you so a little more information would be helpful."

But instead of compliance, insubordination sparked in Dean's green gaze. "You're not part of this. They won't come after you if you're not with me. Just drop me off on 11th Avenue and 37th street, my car's there."

Reese opened his mouth to refute Winchester's ludicrous idea but it was Finch who surprisingly shot down the wounded man's suggestion with impassioned determination. "Mr. Winchester, I think you're misunderstanding our intentions and the danger you are in. We're here to _help_ you. We don't scamper away to safety while others are in danger. And believe me, you are in grave danger. I pulled the police reports of those names you gave me and every one of them have murder charges against them, though they have never been incarcerated for those crimes."

Dean tilted his head at the new tidbit the other man had provided. "You pulled their police records," he repeated slowly, eyes finding Reese's. "So you pulled mine, know what I've been accused of."

"Yes," Reese firmly replied, wanted Winchester to know he wasn't blind to the charges, just didn't believe them.

"Quite a colorful history of crimes…" Harold began, saw Reese give him a quelling look. "My associate believes you are innocent of those crimes."

"Depends which ones we're talking about," Dean quietly murmured, letting his head drop against the back of the seat.

"The men after you believe you killed their friends, Walt and Roy," Reese said, didn't ask it as a question but it was one.

"They had it coming," Dean lowly replied.

"That's not an answer," Reese pressed, knew more about avoidance than one person should.

Dean, however, didn't deem it worth his time to clarify. Instead he closed his eyes, seemed more than willing to let the two men handle the drive, and his destination.

But what worried Reese more was Winchester's detached reaction to people wanting to kill him over two murders that he may not have even committed. And he knew of only two emotions that welcomed such danger: Guilt for a crime committed or to protect the true murderer, to take the fall for sins that weren't his own, were the sins of someone he loved more than he loved himself.

He wondered which objective was motivating Dean Winchester.

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TBC

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Thanks for the wonderful compliments and encouragements! And thanks for continuing to read this tale!

If some of you are wondering about my unusually fast updates, this story was nearly all written before I started to post it. But I do have a few chapters to finalize so please keep prodding me for the next chapters!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	7. Chapter 7

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 7

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Exiting the car, Finch joined Reese at the gas pump, quietly said, "We are running out of safe houses, Mr. Reese," his eyes straying to the back of his car where only Winchester's head was visible.

"You're the one that insisted we continue to protect him," Reese pointed out, kept his own feelings unknown.

Sending Reese a scowl, Harold retorted, "There was no way you were going to let him face these men alone, hurt. I know you better than that."

"Is that why you persuaded him to stay with us, for my sake?" Reese taunted, his lips turning up diminutively as he waited for his partner's reply.

"Mostly." But at Reese's probing look, Harold relented, "Ok, fine. There were some inconsistencies in the police reports, eye witness accounts that…were quite contradictory. Some witnesses were quite insistent that our Mr. Winchester saved their lives. It's quite the conundrum but that coupled with your fondness for the man, makes me think there is something …_good_ about our latest number."

"I'm not fond of him," John denied, voice as level as ever.

Finch raised his eyebrow. "Really. You could have fooled me. You've been hovering over him like a worried mother."

"I have not," Reese countered with no infection of indignation.

"You shushed me at the motel when you thought I might wake him," Finch presented as evidence.

"I dug a bullet out of his back, he needed his rest," Reese logically clarified.

Sensing his partner's reluctance to admit any friendliness toward Winchester, Harold softly said, "John, it is Ok to find yourself forming an…._attachment_ to the people we help."

But John's refuted, almost gruffly, "No. No, it's not."

Though he knew he might be stepping over a personal boundary, Harold couldn't help but ask "Why not?"

Eyes slipping to Winchester in the back of the car before falling on Finch, Reese hoarsely stated, "Because people I care about, die, Harold." Without another word he finished filling the gas tank and then claimed the driver's seat.

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When Reese pulled into the vacant, cracked parking lot of the closed City Motel, Finch broke the silence that had reigned in the car. "I'm not sure of the logic of coming here."

"If it worked for one clandestine meeting today, it'll work as a safe house," Reese explained as he got out of the car and opened the back door to let Winchester exit. There was no fluidness in Winchester's movements, was all struggle now that the adrenaline had long left his system. But the man pushed through his pain and fatigue and came to stand outside the car.

Mindful of Winchester's hostility at being helped, Reese fought the urge to lay a supportive hand on the wobbly figure making a stand before him. Instead he remained immobile, simply nodded to the motel and let Winchester take the lead. Reese wasn't all that surprised that Dean selected the room he would have, the room that offered the most defensible position. It just confirmed more of his theories about the other man.

Side stepping around Dean, John shouldered open the locked door to the room. To his relief, the room was not as deteriorate as he had been braced for, was quite hospitable, especially compared to the places where he had had to lay his head down while working for the CIA.

Dean entered the room but Reese waited for Harold on the walkway. "I'll check the rest of the motel, make sure we're alone. You stay with him."

Harold nodded his head but made no move to enter the room, stood peering through the open door at Winchester.

Reese couldn't hold back a small smile at Harold's actions. "Thought you were starting to believe the serial killer brand was wrong."

Finch looked to Reese, expounded, "I said I was starting to have my doubts about its accuracy in _some_ of the instances, not all of them."

Giving Finch's shoulder a squeeze, Reese started heading toward the abandoned motel's office.

With grim determination, Harold entered the room with the suspected serial killer. But he stopped within three meters of its doorway, turned and stationed himself by the window, his back to Winchester, who seemed less threatening seated as he was on the bed, his coat unzipped to reveal the bandage wound around his waist.

Winchester's voice, when he spoke, was deeper than it had been, hummed with exhaustion that he couldn't continue to conceal. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you don't exactly seem like Tubbs to Reese's Crockett."

Harold couldn't help smirk at the Miami Vice comparison. "Not very likely. No. Mr. Reese has his skill set and I have mine. They may seem incongruent sometimes but they have worked to keep you alive today."

"Yeah, about that. Who said I needed saving?" Winchester posed, curiosity more than resentment carrying in his tone.

At that question, Finch turned around, faced their number for the day, was shocked anew by the man's pallor, which jarred him into remembering the bag he carried and its purpose. Crossing over to Dean, he dug into the bag, handed the wounded man a shirt that he hoped would fit their client as he answered the question that still remained between them. "The bullet Mr. Reese so proficiently extracted from your back surely proves that you were in dire danger."

Winchester smiled, albeit tiredly as he shucked out of his coat, painstakingly slid the other button down shirt on and again donned his coat, spent time looking down to do up the shirt's buttons. "So you're not telling me what Magic 8 Ball you consulted either. Fine. But I think there are other people more worth you risking your life to save, than me."

Caught off guard by the man's low self-esteem and humbleness, Finch wondered what the machine had uncovered about Winchester that he had not. He did not know, though he was its creator, if the machine had discerned Winchester worthy of being saved or if it had given them his number to stop his violent rampage.

Instead of embarking on that unsolvable psychological computation, Harold decided to make his reply personal in nature. "Mr. Reese found something of value in you or else he wouldn't be going to all this trouble to keep you safe."

Dean snorted, his way of showing doubt or disgust, Finch wasn't sure, until the other man spoke.

"He's going on his _gut_. That and the promise a fourteen year old girl blackmailed him into vowing."

But Harold read something else in Winchester's expression beside censure: understanding. "Seems to me you and Mr. Reese operate under some of the same motivations."

Dean opened his mouth, was about to make a reply but remained mysteriously silent, started to wear an expression not all that dissimilar to Mr. Reese's when the ex-CIA agent sensed danger was close at hand. "Mr. Winchester, is something wrong?" Finch asked, didn't know when he had come to think Winchester's opinion mattered, or his instincts were to be trusted.

"Get down," Dean commanded in a quiet hiss, somehow crossing the room to Finch faster than Finch would have guessed him possible in his wounded state. And then Winchester was yanking him down to land not all too ceremoniously on the floor, his back to the wall. Before he could protest the rough handing, Harold heard voices outside the widow.  
"Check every room. This is just the type of place Winchester would scamper away to."

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Reese nearly sensed the other man's presence too late. As it was, he turned in time to knock the gun from the man's hand but wasn't able to avoid the right cross to the jaw. Though he only stumbled a step at the blow, his opponent jumped on his weakness. Literally.

A muscular lithe body plowed into him, sent him flipping over the desk in the small motel office. Using the enforced space between him and his attacker to his advantage, he managed to regain his breath and pulled his gun from its holster. But he didn't expect his adversary to abandon all caution and vault over the desk to tackle him.

They tumbled to the ground, engaged in a wrestling match, both giving and receiving blows, all the while Reese tried to turn his gun onto the other man. He was making progress, had the gun nearly lined up with the man's head when the 8 inch blade of a knife pressed under his neck, bringing to mind Dean's early proficiency with a similar weapon.

The younger man used the mere seconds of Reese's immobility to effectively pin him to the ground.

Wholly recognizing the deadly intent in his opponent's eyes, Reese dropped his gun, was already devising another opening to overthrow the other man.

"Where's my brother?!" the dark haired man growled, pressing the knife hard enough into Reese's flesh to draw blood.

Reese blinked in unmitigated surprise. "Brother?"

With his seemingly lack of answer, the knife dug deeper and the man's demand turned feral. "Where's Dean!?"

Though Reese knew he was in the company of an ally, of sorts, he knew that the trick was to prove that fact before Dean's brother slit his throat. "I'm not here to hurt your brother. I'm trying to keep him safe."

Wearing an expression Reese had seen Dean wear in their short acquaintance, Sam let out a scoffing noise. "Keep him safe, yeah right. Try again."

"Obviously you're Sam. And you've been leaving Dean all those messages, trying to get ahold of him," Reese said, hoping his knowledge of Sam's messages would buy him some trust.

It did the opposite, had Dean's brother leaning down closer, eyes burning with ever greater promised retribution. "If you're hurt him, I swear…."

Reese grabbed Sam's knife wielding hand, stilled it as he seared his gaze into the other Winchester's. He knew he needed to break through the man's rage and fear somehow. "He is hurt, that's why we need to get back to him. Now."

"Hurt…" Sam parroted back but his voice was no longer threatening was alarmed, fragile, quiet, barely loud enough now to carry the few inches to Reese.

Reese and Sam's heads snapped up in unison at the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.

Regardless if the action ended with him getting his throat slit, Reese abruptly rolled Sam off him and came to his feet. Then he was barreling out of the office, fear thrumming through him for Harold and, surprisingly, for Dean Winchester too.

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TBC

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And enter Sam, like I promised!

In case you think you've been ripped off and won't see what happened with Dean, that's coming up in the next chapter. I just didn't want to interrupt the scene between Reese and Sam to jump back and forth.

Is this where I tell you that I might be out of Internet service a few days?! (Please don't kill me!) My next posting may end up being on Sunday but I'm hoping to track down a connection and get another chapter to you sooner than that.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	8. Chapter 8

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Whoo Hoo! I got to an Internet source before Sunday! Thanks for your patience and impatience alike for this chapter! Both responses were so appreciated! And I wanted to state, concerning Sam and Dean's relationship, that I'm going native and hitting AU territory in this story instead of following along with the Season 8 episodes that followed "Southern Comfort." Now onto the story!

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Chapter 8

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With terror nearly shutting down his heart, Finch almost jumped when Winchester leaned close, whispered, "Go to the bathroom and lock the door. Don't come out for anyone but Reese."

Meeting the resolved look in Dean's eyes, Finch lowly asked, dreading the answer, "What are you going to do?"

"Give them what they want," Winchester grimly plotted. "They won't even know you were here." When Dean started to creep for the door, his motion was arrested by Finch's unexpectedly strong hand capturing his wrist.

"No. I won't let you sacrifice your life, not for me," Finch opposed, before stark acceptance of what he needed to do washed over his features. "You should go into the bathroom."

Dean's eyebrows flew up at the other man's suggestion, and he stammered, "I should …_what_?!" before his face clouded over with angry frustration. "Are you kidding me?!" he hissed. "Go to the bathroom, now!" he growled lowly between his teeth, coiling his hand around Finch's bicep and giving the man a directional jerk toward the bathroom.

But before their clash of contradictory protective agendas could be resolved, the door handle into the room began to turn.

Using the wall at his back to aid his ascent to his feet, Dean tightened his not so steady fingers around the knife hilt, hoping his strength held out long enough to take down their intruder. He let out a silent sigh as he realized that Finch had not sought out a safe corner but was drawing closer to him, and therefore to the hunter about to come through the door.

Knowing that all he had was the element of surprise, Dean didn't give the hunter time to do more than get the room door open a few inches before he struck out, buried the knife in the man's flesh. Unintentionally or intentionally, the man's gun erupted, sent a bullet zinging by Dean to thud into the room's west wall.

The knife wound had caught the hunter in the shoulder, was clearly not enough to properly dissuade him because the next second he was pushing his way into the room. Charging Winchester, he sacked Dean in the gut, pushed them both back across the room to topple onto the bed and then roll off of it with a thud. Their close quarter battle then entailed choke holds and body blows.

Dean let out a startled cry of agony when a punch to his side sent shockwaves shuddering through his torso and, more importantly, to his bullet wound. It practically ripped the fight right out of him, or at least, the strength to fight.

Sensing victory was at hand, the hunter never saw the attack coming, not until Harold had smashed a lamp over his head. He toppled over like he was poleaxed.

"Mr. Winchester, are you alright?" Finch worriedly inquired, crashing to his knees beside the prone younger man, hands beginning to reach out for Winchester.

But another voice answered his question.

"He's not going to be alright this time," the blond man in his fifties vowed as he stepped into the room, the gun in his hand coming up to point at Finch. "And neither are you."

Harold couldn't move, was frozen, made it remarkably easy for Winchester to tumble him backwards with a one handed shove to his chest. Back connecting with the carpet, he didn't understand the rough treatment by someone he had intended to protect, until Dean spoke.

"He's not part of this," Dean snarled, managing to sit up, the pain the movement caused him evident by his harsh breathing and the pinched look of his features. "Your beef is with me. I'm the one that wasted Walt and Roy." Dean pulled on an evil smile as he maliciously boasted, "I enjoyed it too."

And that taunt was enough to do what Winchester had wanted it to: To make Finch a non-issue, as noticed by the hunter as a piece of furniture in the room.

"I'm actually glad I'm gonna be the one to end you," the hunter drawled, lining up the barrel of his gun with Dean's temple. "I owe Walt and Roy that much."

"Says something for your character that you owed those losers anything," Winchester sneered, even as Finch mentally pleaded with the young man to just shut up, to not antagonize his foe.

The hunter ruthlessly slammed his gun against Dean's forehead, sent Winchester collapsing back onto the floor. He followed it with a wound-up kick to Dean's side, his injured one, smiled as a howl of agony tore from Winchester's throat. Then he put his boot onto Dean's chest, put his weight behind it and leaned down over his victim, almost lazily brought the gun to settle against Dean's throat. "Any last, brave words, Winchester?"

However, it wasn't Winchester who spoke, but Finch. "No, don't! I have money. I can get you money! Just don't kill him."

The hunter spared Finch a toothy grin. "Money doesn't keep the monsters at bay." Then, turning back to Dean, he lowly growled, "I do," as his finger squeezed the trigger.

"No!" Harold shouted as the harsh report of gunfire echoed through the room, three times.

In surprised stupor, Harold watched the blond hunter collapse on top of Winchester.

Head snapping to the open doorway, Finch expected to see John Reese, making his usual, just-in-the-nick-of-time rescue. But instead he found that it was a tall brunette man standing there. Lowering his gun, the man hurriedly entered the room and came to Dean's side. Urgently rolling the dead man off of Winchester, he peered down at Dean, bade anxiously, "Dean?!"

"Sam?" came Winchester's weak, bewildered rejoinder. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your stupid life," Sam replied but there was no anger in his tone, only heartfelt relief and affection. "Come on," his hand reaching down for Dean.

"Wait! He's hurt!" Harold cautioned but realized his warning was unnecessary when he watched the tall brunette, Sam, as it was, not grab Dean's hand to pull the wounded man to his feet but instead slip his hand behind Dean's back and gently lever Winchester to an upright position on the floor. Then the taller man shifted closer, not only allowed Dean to be braced against his right shoulder but put a protective arm around Dean, seemingly holding him in place.

Finch, enthralled by the interaction between the two younger men, only noticed Reese's presence when his friend spoke from his crouched position beside him. "Harold, you OK?"

Looking to his friend, Harold replied, "Yes", allowed Reese to pull him to his feet with a hand in his. Then they stood there, watched the two men who were still occupying the floor. It was a revelation to see Dean, not only allow assistance and human contact, but welcome it.

"We should probably get out of here. Our car's the one just outside the room," Reese announced, ever mindful of the danger Dean might still be in.

"We got this now," Sam gruffly declared, his eyes snapping up to Reese, conveying that he was there for his brother and _they, _he and Dean unified, like a single entity, no longer needed a stranger to keep Dean _safe_. They also held a good measure of resentment that Reese was still trying to play the role of protector to _his_ brother.

But Reese wasn't in the habit of quitting a job until he knew, without a doubt, that his charge was safe. And he wasn't planning on breaking that rule now, regardless of how capable Sam seemed of protecting Dean. "Sure, you're good right now, until the next attack comes. The people coming after your brother are skilled, well-armed and determined to see him dead. So unless you want this reunion of yours to be short and end with you standing over his grave, I suggest you accept the help we're offering," Reese bluntly recommended in his ever level tone, as if his own emotions weren't a factor, that he wasn't more than willing to take Dean from his brother if Sam didn't agree with his logic.

Harold saw the flinch that flickered in Sam Winchester's features at Reese's bleak prediction, at the utterance of the word '_grave_' before Winchester buried those emotions under outrage.

"I can take care of my own brother," Sam vehemently declared, unconsciously tightening his hold on his brother.

Dean took that moment to intervene before there was blood shed between his warring protectors. Laying a hand on his brother's forearm, Dean soothed, "Sam, he's Ok. He saved my life…a couple of times today already," he humbly admitted, eyes coming up to Reese's, appreciation shining in them.

Sam, however, speared his brother with a look of anger that was a poor concealment to his hurt. "What? He another Benny?! Saved your life and now he's a better brother than I've ever been?!"

"No! Don't be stupid, Sam!" Dean flung back at Sam, like he couldn't believe that thought even popped into his brother's head.

Sam gave a bitter laugh in response. "Right, 'cause that's so unbelievable, you picking someone over me."

Angrily, Dean jerked out of his brother's hold, started to climb to his feet, as he volleyed back, "Maybe I learned it from you. And excuse me, but you're the one that can't help telling me every five seconds that you would rather be with Amelia than with me."

As if he were in synch with Dean's motions, Sam came off the ground at the same time. "Yeah, maybe that's because she doesn't make a habit of _dying_ on me!" And whatever comeback Dean would have made to that confusing statement was not to be known because he no sooner straightened to his full height before he passed out cold.

Though Reese leaped forward to catch Dean, it was Sam, with a alarmed cry of "Dean!" who grabbed Dean in his hold and kept him from an another unforgivingly brutal encounter with the room's carpeted floor. Cursing, not with anger but fear, Sam removed one of his arms from around his brother's torso and slid it behind his brother's knees. Then he picked Dean up into his arms like he was a burden he had carried many times before, was his duty to bear.

Hurt brother in his hands, Sam turned to Reese, commanded, "Alright, fine, let's get out of here," their earlier bickering falling silence with Dean's collapse.

Reese didn't revel in his victory, didn't feel it was much of one when the guy he was supposed to be protecting was passed out and bleeding, again. So without a word, with his gun in hand and his eyes continuously scanning their surroundings, Reese led the way to the car, opened the back door, watched as Sam gently lowered Dean into the interior before he jumped in. Immediately Sam drew Dean against his chest and protectively wrapped his arms around his brother.

Reese shut the car door when Sam's eyes flickered up to his.

Claiming the passenger seat while Finch took over the driver's, Reese scanned every shadow and hiding place, spotted their attackers' cars in the woods a half mile from the motel but there were no signs of stragglers. Part of him hoped it was over, but he was too well-trained to let down his guard until he knew for sure. Unconsciously, his eyes went to the rearview mirror, spied on the two men, two brothers. He felt a spike of jealously at the sight of Dean's lax face pressed into Sam's chest and Sam resting his chin on Dean's head, of their connection, the chance they had to be reunited, to be together.

It made him recall Sam's voice message to Dean: "_I'll be waiting for your call_."

And John had known it had been promise and need rolled into one declaration. Just like Jessica's "_Tell me to wait for you and I will,"_ in that airport had been. But he hadn't heard what she was really saying, hadn't allowed himself to feel, to want, to need…to love. And with the last words he and Jessica would ever exchange, there was that same promise and need, the request and vow to wait, to be there when he came for her. But in the end, he had chosen duty over Jessica, had broken his vow to her. He hadn't come for her…and she hadn't waited for him. His broken promise had led to another, had cursed them to be eternally apart.

And maybe that was at the heart of why he did what he did, so no one else had to lose the person that made them whole, human, to know the pain, the loss that he did. So Sam didn't lose his brother.

"So I believe we're down to the safe house location on Walnut Street or the motel on Fillmore. Which do you prefer?"

Finch's question brought Reese's eyes to rest on his partner. "Neither. I have another location in mind."

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Eyes tracking Sam's process to the apartment complex doors as he carried his still unconscious brother, Finch lowly said to John who was pacing him, "Mr. Reese, when I selected this place for you, it was supposed to be somewhere that _you _could be safe." Harold had wanted that for his friend, a sanctuary, someplace to feel safe after the day of danger he had undoubtedly had.

"It's safe," Reese returned as if he misunderstood Finch's implication.

"You're bringing two men who are wanted for a slew of murder charges to your home, to where you sleep, I don't consider that safe _for you_."

"Harold, are you trying to dictate who I can entertain in my home?" Reese drawled with a smirk.

Finch didn't give a comeback aside from a frustrated sigh, recognizing a lost cause when he saw one. Wondered if there was anything his friend wouldn't sacrifice to protect someone he perceived as needing his help. He could only worry at the answer he knew to be true.

Opening his apartment door, Reese directed Sam to the bedroom, watched as the other man skillfully maneuvered through the doorways, careful to not catch his brother's legs or dangling arms on the doors frames. Then Sam gently settled his brother onto the bed, was careful to support his head, nestle it on the pillow before he stood back, simply stood there and watched his brother breathing, showing proof that he was alive, that Sam hadn't lost him.

"I'll get some bandages and a suture kit," Reese supplied, was turning away when Sam spoke without turning around. "Thank you. For saving him," his voice hoarse and his gratitude unmistakably authentic.

Instead of brushing off Sam's thanks, Reese replied with a "You're welcome," before he left the room, left the two brothers alone. He found Harold in the living room, already consulting his laptop for assistance in their latest case. "Find any clues on whether or not the threat to Dean is over?"

"Detective Fusco sent me the names and rap sheets of the men you encountered in the warehouse and at the hotel. They are career criminals and have numerous associates. I'm cross checking those associates with the men we encountered at that lovely motel you had us staying at to see if there are any associates unaccounted for." But then Finch's eyes lifted from the computer, sought out Reese's. "Did Dean contact his brother, tell him we would be at that closed motel?"

"No. Not any more than he called the bad guys and arranged a play date for there."

"Then how did they all find us? Tracking Dean's phone, a bug, some other form of surveillance?" Finch questioned, didn't have any logic for how they were being tracked so effectively.

But Reese shook his head. "I don't think it's something that electronic, more instinctive, more old school footwork and contacts. Dean said that the men after him track things for a living, and I think that's also true of Sam."

"That Sam tracks things for a living or tracks his _brother_ down constantly?" Harold asked, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, had sensed the utter affection between the two brothers even when their words were heated.

"I think you're right on both counts, Harold," Reese couldn't help but agree with Finch's observations with a smirk. "This doesn't seem like the first time Sam's searched for and found his brother."

"He would have found him too late this time, had it not been for you," Harold pointed out, had sensed something sad about his friend's demeanor and wanted to remind John that he was making a difference, was saving lives.

John's features, however, didn't soften at the compliment but became more resolute. "And I'm going to make sure he doesn't lose him now. You find me any remaining associates."

Hesitantly Finch asked, "And what is your plan when I do?"

"I'll find them before they find Dean," Reese vowed with that lethal determination that always put a shiver down Finch's spine.

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TBC

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Thanks for your support!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W


	9. Chapter 9

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Well, I had planned on being on vacation today but I ended up coming home for a funeral for a wonderful lady. It's always painful to say goodbye to someone who has brightened our lives but I know she is truly walking with Jesus now. And you all are still just stuck with me rambling on about my favorite men in a crazy crossover storyline. So, since I'm home before Sunday…here's the next chapter.

Oh and about Sam and Dean's relationship, I didn't mean I was discounting what had gone on in Season 8 up to the episode "Southern Comfort", I meant, since I'm a "if I don't like it, I try and fix it" kinda girl, I was going to take it a different direction than the show had after that episode. Sorry for the confusion on that!

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Chapter 9

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Reese halted before he reentered the bedroom with the bandages when he heard Dean's voice.

"They had Krissy, were blackmailing Lee into doing a job with them. So I got Krissy back and she's with her father now."

Sam's perceptive question came next. "And the guys are trying to kill you because you took Krissy from them? Because they think she's still with you?" a note of disbelief in his tone.

"Guess so," Dean nonchalantly lied to his brother's face.

Not sure why Dean was keeping the true motive for his death sentence a secret, Reese entered the room, saw that Sam had claimed a perch on the mattress at Dean's waist. From his still prone position on the bed, Dean sent a probing look his way. In return, Reese met Dean's eyes steadily, let the other man know that he had heard their conversation, loud and clear. But when he spoke, it wasn't to enlighten Sam on his brother's deception.

"We should check your wound. You definitely pulled some stitches."

"No, I'm good," Dean denied, went to rise from the bed but his brother stationed his hand on his chest, effectively pinning him to the bed.

"Dean, you passed out," Sam huffed out, his attempt at frustration a poor guise for the abundant concern he felt for his brother's well-being.

"You try taking a wrench _and_ a gun barrel to the head in one day, see how you feel," Dean grumbled like a sulky child who was trying to justify his bout of crying on the playground. He reached his hand up to feel the sticky blood on his temple from the re-opened head wound.

"Not to mention a bullet to the back," Reese supplied that important tidbit that both defended Dean's weakness and condemned him to be the recipient of his brother's jaw clenching glare of reprimand.

"You got shot?!" Sam managed, his voice a mixture of quiet fury and rising worry. "When were you going to tell me that, huh, Dean?"

"Ah, I don't know, maybe when I wasn't unconscious, Sam," Dean bit back, trying to shift upright to better defend himself only to have his brother once again block that move with his well-placed hand, but now with more gentle pressure than force.

Wondering if all brothers bickered like the Winchesters did, Reese came forward warily, like he would when he knew he was crossing into a demilitarized zone. Setting the bandages, med kit and basin of water on the nightstand, he looked down at Dean. "Roll over and let me check your wound."

Reese didn't miss the measuring look Sam gave to him, knew he had passed some test when Sam lifted his hand from his brother's chest and stood up. But Sam didn't step back, stood protectively at his brother's side, barely gave him enough room to gain access to Dean.

Dean, who had yet to obey Reese's command, looked decidedly twitchy as his eyes darted between Sam and Reese, his two protectors. "Hey, Sam, can you get me a drink of water?"

At first, Sam turned as if he was about to do his brother's bidding but his stance straightened with tension and his eyes snapped to Dean's when he realized his brother was trying to get rid of him. "Dean, I'm not going anywhere. Now roll over." But Dean still didn't move and Reese saw his eyes flicker to him as if he expected him to help his cause. But Reese remained silent, watched the exchange with confusion because Sam Winchester didn't seem like a guy who fainted at the sight of blood or a gunshot wound, even when the injured one was his brother.

"Sam, Reese will patch me up. You don't have to hang out in here," Dean tried again to encourage his brother to leave the room.

Not sure why, but Reese found himself taking Sam's side in this brotherly interaction. "I could use a second set of hands." That earned him a deadly glare from Dean, which he gave a small smile at.

With a begrudging acceptance of defeat, Dean started to roll over, let out a meow of pain at the jostling to his abused body, which prompted Sam to reach out, catch his shoulder and ease his descent to lie down on his stomach.

With his patient finally in position, Reese lifted Dean's shirt up to revealed his back and the blood spotted bandage coiled around his waist. But John's eyes flew to Sam when the younger man's breath hitched to a stop. Then he watched as Sam's eyes traveled, not to the bandage but to the most recent, jagged scar marring Dean's back. A scar that Sam had apparently not seen before and his brother hadn't wanted him to see.

When Sam found breath, he let out a choked, "Dean" that encompassed horror and fear and concern.

Dean, face advantageously averted from Sam and from Reese, tersely assured as if he knew exactly what had his brother so upset, "It's fine, Sam."

But it wasn't fine, Reese knew that by the bone whiteness of Sam's features. Saw Sam's hand snake out, tremble above his brother's back before settling on the scar, garish evidence of his brother's trauma and pain. When Dean tensed at the contact, Reese knew it was not out of pain but surprise.

"This happened in Purgatory?" Sam quietly asked, swallowing hard, as if he knew the answer but was trying to brace himself to hear it.

Dean remained silent, seemed taunt and ready to retort with anger but instead he gave a sarcastically lighthearted rejoinder of "No, I was at this picnic and they were shish-kebabing steaks and there was this little mishap…."

Sam withdrew his hand from his brother's wound and formed it into a fist. "This another thing you didn't think I needed to know about?! Another secret you wanted to keep from me?!"

"It happened, you weren't there, had no interest in coming to my rescue so…"Dean began but Sam broke angrily into his reply.

"I didn't know you needed rescuing, Dean!" And Reese sensed the emotional edge Sam was on even if Dean didn't, felt Sam's ravaging emotions as the other man nearly shouted, "How many times do I need to tell you that!"

"Maybe until I believe you!" Dean shouted back, starting to push himself up as if he was going to get off the mattress, would crawl off it if he had to, would if it meant getting away from his brother. This time it was Reese who intervened, who rested a hand between Dean's shoulder blades and pressed Dean back down onto the mattress.

His other hand Reese splayed across Sam's chest, restricted the man from stepping closer to Dean. Immediately he saw Sam's eyes spark with deadly irritation at his interference. "Whatever issues are between you two, I suggest you either stow them while we tend to your brother or you leave the room."

"I'm not leaving my brother," Sam violently growled, knocking Reese's hand off his chest and starting to draw closer to the bed and Dean.

Reese was contemplating forcibly ejecting Sam from the room when Dean muttered, "Let him stay. He'll only whine at the door like a puppy if you kick him out."

Sam disgustedly shook his head at his brother's humor but held Reese's gaze steadily with unmistakable resolve.

Determining that, unless he wanted to knock Sam out, he had no choice but to let the other man remain at Dean's side, Reese took a step back from Sam, gave the other man room to maneuver. And he maneuvered right to his brother's side like a magnet. Accepting that they were a two man team now, Reese handed Sam a scissors, didn't have to instruct the man before he was setting to the task Reese had in mind of cutting the old bandages and stripping them away.

Reese removed the blood soaked sterile pads pressed against the wound, scowled at the still bleeding wound and the broken stitches. "You broke the stitches, are bleeding again," he announced. Dean gave a humph of acceptance, didn't even wince when Reese doused a cloth in the water and began to gently clean away the blood from the wound and followed it with a swipe of antiseptic which Dean endured stoically, though from experience Reese knew how badly it must have burned. During his ministrations, Reese detected Sam slipping around him, going to the nightstand. He turned to find Sam holding a threaded needle, a needle he didn't seem willing to turn over to Reese's outstretched hand.

And Reese knew a losing battle when he saw one but he would still wage this one if Dean didn't give his consent. "Your brother wants to stitch you up, you ok with that?"

"Not the first stitches he will put into me," Dean mumbled in a way of consent.

Stepping back but making sure he still had a clean line of sight to Dean's wound, Reese tracked Sam's every movement, almost jumped when Dean did at Sam's light touch to his spine. "Easy, easy," Sam soothed tenderly. "You want something for the pain?"

"No."

And Sam didn't object, seemed to have predicted that answer from his brother. Then he began to stitch his brother's damaged flesh together, did it with the skill of a well-versed doctor and with the gentleness of someone who hated to inflict pain on the person bearing his touch.

Reese could only marvel at the blatant connection between the two men that would practically be tangible to even a blind man, let alone someone as perceptive as he was. This wasn't the first stitch Sam had sown on his brother, the other scars Dean had, some of them were his handiwork. So it was stark proof of the past dissention between the two men that Sam had not known about the newest scar, had not had a part in its healing. That proof coupled with the voice message Sam had filled Dean's cell with and their argumentative words a few minutes before told Reese that, as strong as their bond was, it was cracking.

And he found that he wanted to protect Dean from that fallout as much as he wanted to protect him from a bullet. Because losing the person that connected you to the world, he knew all about that, knew about being lost, of needing someone to find him, to save him. He didn't want Dean to do what he had done, to push away that one person who was desperate to keep him close, who was not only capable but willing to seek him out, to save him, even when he didn't think he was worth saving.

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TBC

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Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	10. Chapter 10

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 10

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Having successfully stitched up, not only his brother's back but Dean's temple wound too, Sam left the room to wash up. Dean, who had stubbornly insisted on sitting up against the headboard for the stitches to his head, now warily watched Reese as the other man took a seat in the room. Dean looked as if he felt an interrogation was about to start.

"Your brother doesn't seem like a bad guy. Makes me wonder why you left him behind and were avoiding his calls," Reese unmasked his curiosity, though he didn't think it would get him anywhere.

"Irreconcilable differences," Dean coolly offered.

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To say Finch was curious about Sam Winchester would have been an understatement. The man hardly looked the serial killer type and yet Finch had seen him shoot and kill a man right in front of him. Granted, the man was about to kill his brother, Dean and probably Harold right after that heinous act, but the fact still stood that Sam had taken a life, and hadn't shown one drop of remorse for it.

"Mr. Winchester, I was hoping we could talk," he called out as the man seemed intent on heading back to his brother. There was a momentary indecision in Winchester's demeanor as his eyes strayed to the bedroom but then he came and claimed a seat in the living room across from Finch.

Now that he had his audience in front of him, Harold felt a bit self-conscious, a bit intimidated. Cleared his throat to begin probing the man for information but, to his surprise, Sam leaned forward, leveled an intense gaze on him and fired off the first question, like _he_ was the interrogator.

"What did that man say to Dean in the motel room?"

"Only what the other man had," Finch found himself answering, not sure if it was out of fear or in reaction to the fear he had witnessed earlier in the younger man's eyes when he saw his brother, bloody and on the ground.

"Right. So they all told the same story. Any of them give any details?" Sam quested.

"Only that they believed your brother had killed their two friends and they wanted retribution," Finch provided, was starting to understand that interrogator wasn't a new role for Winchester.

"They were friends of Harvey's?" Sam incredulously asked.

"Harvey? No, it was Walt and Roy…" Harold corrected, broke off as he suddenly knew by the surprised then deadly expression that transformed Sam's features that he had been played, had just given Sam information he had not had. That his brother and Mr. Reese had not told him, for reasons of their own.

With a vicious curse, Sam surged out of the chair, stalked for the bedroom. Harold took up pursuit, wasn't sure what he had inadvertently set into motion. But before Sam barreled into the bedroom, the tall brunette stumbled to a stop, was cut to the quick by his brother's quiet declaration from inside the room.

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Reese didn't know exactly how he had done it, but somehow he had gotten Dean to open up.

"Sam and I, we're about through, on our last hurrah," Dean sorrowfully admitted with a painful smile. "We've worn out, probably _torched_ whatever brotherhood we once had. If the fat lady isn't singing yet, she's in her dressing room, warming up."

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Finch was nearly knocked over as Sam swiftly spun around and almost stumbled into him in his haste to get away, to not overhear anything else. He didn't need to speculate how painful Dean's words had been to Sam, could see it written in the younger man's anguished eyes. It was why he followed Sam out of the apartment and down onto the street.

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"And you thought you would give the curtain call yourself, leave on your own," Reese conjectured.

"Sam has a girl…even a friggin' dog, wants to be with them more than he's ever wanted to be with me," Dean smirked, tried to make a joke out of it, out of his pain.

And John knew the choice Dean had made, why he had made it. He had made the same one with Jessica, had let her go so she could have a better life. But things hadn't turned out that way, not for her. And John couldn't help wonder if the same kind of fate awaited Sam if Dean let him go, walked away for good, accepted the lie John had told himself: '_In the end, we are all alone_.'

Holding Dean's gaze, John remarked, "I don't know about that. I think if he really wanted to be with them, he wouldn't have come hunting for you, wouldn't be here with you right now."

"Wow, that was beautiful. You should write for Hallmark," Dean sallied back, as if Reese's words hadn't affected him, hadn't given him the slightest ray of hope.

Undiscouraged by Winchester's sarcasm, Reese solemnly imparted, "I've learned the hard way that, when you push away someone that you love for their own good, sometimes it's the worst thing you can do to them." Then he left the room, hoped Dean took his words to heart, didn't have to live with the painful regrets and failures that he did.

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Cursing his limp and Sam's long legs, Finch called out "Sam. Wait!" He was surprised that the other man halted on the sidewalk. But Sam didn't turn to face him, kept his back to him, made Finch circle him to see his face. "What you heard was probably taken entirely out of context."

But Sam swallowed hard, shook his head, seemed too emotional to offer up a verbal denial.

"Trust me, Mr. Reese and I are experts at misinterpreting snippets of conversations, of situations. We've learned that you need to see the whole picture before you can make a well informed conclusion."

Sam did find the ability to speak then, but his voice was hoarse, spoke of unshed tears, "No, Dean meant what he said."

"Well, then that makes absolutely no sense to me," Finch declared, a bit miffed that Sam was being so unreasonable, that both Winchesters were.

It caused Sam to give a weak chuckle. "Dean and I don't make sense, that's the whole point." Then Sam started walking but he didn't go far, claimed a seat on the bench in the small park. Harold joined him, watched the man's profile as Sam studied the people walking the paths in the growing darkness. "I lost Dean…thought I lost him a year and half ago and I just…." Sam shook his head, like he didn't know how to describe how it felt to endure the total annihilation of your world and yet still be forced to stay living in it.

But Harold recognized the despair, the lost timbre in Sam's tone, had witnessed it in John Reese, had felt it himself, when he lost Nathan, let Amber go. "You didn't know who you were without him," a statement not a question.

Sam's eyes snapped to Harold's, narrowed, seemed on the verge of accusing him of reading his mind before he huskily admitted, "Yeah." Then Sam looked away again. Bending over, he leaned his elbows against his knees and clasped his hands together, the embodiment of dejection. "Dean thinks I quit on him…and I guess I did, I just….ran. I wasn't his brother anymore, wasn't anybody's _anything_. Was just me. Alone. And that wasn't much, you know. Never was without Dean."

And Harold did know, better than he wanted to, understood losing his identity, though he had changed it so many times before. But knowing he couldn't be himself anymore, didn't know how to be that person, was a painful revelation. Was a lonely way to survive. Until he had found Reese, let someone into his sphere, even if it was only to be a working relationship, was never supposed to morph into friendship, because letting himself have the luxury of a friend…that had cost him everything before. He had not wanted to travel that disastrous path again, but Reese…_John_ ..snuck his way in like the well-trained covert agent he was.

Looking to Sam, Harold wondered if the young man had the same reservations about letting his brother back into his heart…only to risk it being shattered all over again. "But now Dean's back and as much as you crave his presence…you fear it too." Sam's body stiffened and he shifted upright, still didn't face him but his jaw jumped in tension. "You fear losing him all over again, being condemned to that lost state of not being anybody's anything again. I understand that trepidation, Sam. I lost my best friend and I wasn't looking to have anyone fill that hole, ever. I tried to keep people at a distance but Mr. Reese is very persistent."

At that statement, Sam's lips turned up into a small smile and the younger man looked to Finch. "Yeah, I can see that about him. So calling him "Mr. Reese", that help to keep him at arms length?" Sam asked, the twinkle in his eyes telling Finch that he already knew that answer.

"Not so much," Finch confessed with a light chuckle, found Sam smiling back and nodding his head. "It's hard to stay uncaring when someone you work with side by side, day after day is put in almost constant danger …nearly dies."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, tell me about it," and he ran a weary hand down his face. "I keep telling myself that I should walk away, leave before…I lose him again but …" Sam pressed his lips together. Harold knew Sam was suppressing everything he felt, hoping to smother it or, at the very least, control it but the younger man's next words still cracked, "I can't." Sam shook his head like he felt that was a failure on his part. "And when he left me a couple days ago…I knew that I couldn't let him go either."

"Maybe you're not supposed to," Harold quietly said.

Sam cleared his throat, stood up. "You heard Dean, he thinks we're through…wants us to be."

Finch came to his feet, stood in Sam's path. "What I heard was a man who was trying to brace himself for the hurt to come, who thought there was no other solution but to let you go, no hope of a happy ending."

"Happy ending?" Sam lightly scoffed, as if he didn't believe that was possible.

Finch had the grace to blush at being caught out being an idealist. "Relatively speaking. I guess you have to decide what that prefect 'happy ending' is for you. A life without your brother…or with him. And then fight to achieve it."

Finch's cellphone trilled at that moment and Finch knew he was in for a lecture when he saw it was Mr. Reese. "We're on our way back, Mr. Reese," he started with.

His partner and friend replied with reprimand in place, "The question is why you left in the first place, Harold."

Meeting Sam's eyes, Finch replied to Reese, "We needed to get some air."

"Well, get back here. Your computer search turned up some associates for the men trying to kill Dean."

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Harold was encouraged by the fact that Sam made a beeline for the bedroom that housed his brother. Felt a pang of shame that he wished he had the room bugged so he could hear their conversation. '_I'm really taking this voyeur habit too far_."

Checking his inquisitiveness, he veered off to join Reese in the living room, felt a tad out of place looking over _John_'s shoulder to see the computer screen. But something demanded his attention more than the computer screen, namely his friend. Sensing a rigidity in his friend's demeanor, he noted that John's eyes were critically following Sam's trek toward the bedroom as if the tall brunette was a threat that was approaching his charge.

"They are brothers, Mr. Reese, not adversaries," Finch reassured, trying to quiet his friend's misgivings even as his own raged on at the prospect of the upcoming confrontation between Sam and Dean.

"So were Cain and Able," Reese dryly compared, didn't quite know why he was suddenly perceiving Sam as a threat to Dean. '_Maybe because Sam seems to be the only one that Dean's let in. And that means he can hurt Dean the most._' Turning almost accusing eyes on Finch he asked, "And why does Sam seem more upset after 'getting some air' with you?"

Finch sighed and claimed a seat in the closest chair. "It was a matter of unfortunate timing. Sam heard Dean's declaration that their brotherhood was drawing to a close." He registered the displeasure that happenstance caused Reese. "He immediately bolted out the door and I followed him, tried to calm him down."

"Doesn't seem to have worked all that well," Reese decreed, hearing raised voices coming from his bedroom.

"Well I believe I unwittingly provided information to him that his brother would have wished I hadn't, namely the reason those men were trying to kill him."

"Oh great," Reese muttered, rising to his feet and heading for the battlefield.

Dean, who was now out of bed and facing off with his taller sibling, volleyed back to whatever Sam had said "…because it didn't involve you, Sam!"

But Sam stepped closer to his brother, hissed, "Yes it did! You didn't kill Walt and Roy, Dean. I did!"

To Finch's shock, Dean merely gave a quiet, "Yeah, I figured that out" to his brother's shocking confession.

Apparently Sam wasn't prepared for that simple declaration that lacked condemnation from his brother either, shifted on his feet, seemingly oblivious to the presence of Reese and Finch. "They couldn't get away with …" but then Sam cut himself off, gave a look over his shoulder at his growing audience.

"We can talk about this later, Sam," Dean commanded, clearly not wanting his brother to speak in front of the two men he barely knew.

"No, we talk about it now. You won't listen later," Sam firmly stated.

"_I_ won't listen?" Dean scoffed but Sam was pressing forward, his focus centered wholly on his brother.

"Walt and Roy, them coming after me, I get. I do. But when they shot _you_…they crossed a line, Dean," Sam said darkly. "And then all the stuff that happened because of them attacking us…we nearly stopped being _brothers_," and his voice cracked on that word, on that treasured thing he had nearly lost. But when Sam spoke again, there was only deadly resolve in his tone, "I couldn't let them get away with that, couldn't give them the chance to go after you again. So you can call me a monster, whatever, but I wouldn't undo what I did," Sam defiantly declared.

"If you hadn't taken them down, I eventually would have, Sam." Dean forgave and gave his blessing to his brother's actions, all in that one statement

"But the point is, you didn't kill them, Dean," Sam lowly emphasized before he charged, his voice rising as he spoke, "So why didn't you tell the hunters they had the wrong guy?"

"What? Rat out my own brother?! Yeah, that would have been classy," Dean scoffed, went to stalk by Sam but his brother grabbed him by the shoulders, jerked him to face him.

"It would have stopped them from, oh I don't know… **trying to kill you**!" Sam growled.

"I wasn't going to put you in danger! So they thought it was me, **good**."

"Good?!" Sam repeated in frustrated fury. "Dean, they shot you?!"

In a surprising turn, Dean smirked, flippantly corrected, "Technically they shot me for stealing Krissy from them. So it totally doesn't count in your argument."

It disarmed some of Sam's anger, had him affectionately yet exasperatedly drawling out his brother's name. "Deeaan."

Reese chose that moment to interrupt. "How about we try and make sure no one else gets shot for any reason." When he had both brothers' attention, he outlined, "We have identified five more associates of the men who tried to kill Dean. If you can help me find them, I can end this. Once and for all."

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"This is not our best plan," Finch said through the earwig Reese wore as he sat back in the library, hands poised over his computer keypad.

"Technically, it's not our plan, it's the Winchesters," Reese nitpicked.

"Are we going to make it a practice now to have our clients devise plans to save themselves? Plans that involve putting the very person we've almost died to save in the line of fire as bait?!"

"Finch, you were there. Sam and I both objected to that part of this, but Dean wouldn't back down. He said he was the one they would be looking for, so if he ended up where they expected him to be, we would have them in our sights."

"Yes, but that also leaves _Dean_ in _their_ sights," Finch worriedly reminded Reese.

"Now who's sounding fond of our serial killer," Reese teasingly taunted.

Finch rolled his eyes, knew this was coming. "Fine, he's not what he seems." But then he solemnly told his partner, "John, he was going to give himself up to save me in that abandoned motel. He provoked those men, egged them on to kill him so I would have a chance at surviving. I just…don't want to let him down."

"We won't, Harold," John vowed. "Sam and I won't let anything happen to him."

"Or yourselves. As these group of men have proven, they are efficient killers."

"Maybe you're forgetting, but I'm no novice at killing either, Finch," Reese coolly reminded before disconnecting the call. He could never forget what he was, even if Finch sometimes did.

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Though Reese had presented a confident front to Finch, he couldn't quiet the misgivings he harbored for their risky plan. As he climbed into the passenger seat of the black 1967 Impala, he assessed Dean as he manned the steering wheel. "You don't have to do this. We can come up with another way to track them down."

"Yeah, but my plan will work," Dean cockily bragged, pulling the car into the New York city traffic.

"Glad to see your ego is still fully functional," Reese dryly quipped.

"Always," Dean assured with a smile but it faded when he noted Reese's too serious expression. "You and Sam worry too much. They'll walk right into our trap."

"Or we'll walk right into theirs," John solemnly verbalized the second, less than ideal, outcome to their present scheme.

Trading looks between the road and his passenger, Dean shrugged as if that prospect didn't bother him overly much. "It wouldn't be the first plan of mine that went south, trust me."

"I find it's better to not _start_ with plans that might fail," Reese drawled, left unsaid just how many of his well-conceived plans 'went south.'

"Bite me," Dean shot but back his lips were curling up into a smile, an expression which Reese soon mirrored.

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Having left the city in the rearview mirror, Dean turned the Impala down a rutted dirt driveway that was flanked by overgrown woods and tall grass that hadn't seen a mower in years. He pulled the car to a stop as a boarded up house came into view five hundred yards ahead.

Exiting the car, Reese came around to Dean's open window, was already starting to blend in to the darkness with his uncharacteristic black sweater and pants. "If you're right, they know about this place or they've trailed us here, either way, they'll be coming soon. I'll let them get past me and head for the house. They'll probably leave a guy in the bush here. I'll take him out and anyone else stationed outside and work my way to the house."

Dean nodded before he recounted his part, "And I'll park around back, greet anyone coming up the front stairs with a bullet."

"We'll pin them in the middle," Reese steely vowed and then he melted away into the woods, heard the growl of the Impala engine as Dean drove toward the house. Crouching through the underbrush, John felt his gut clench, didn't like that Dean was going to be out of his radius, that, if the younger man's plan backfired, he might be hopelessly out of range to aid him. And that was wholly unacceptable to him, and not only because he would be breaking a vow to Krissy, Sam and now Finch if he let anything happen to Dean.

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The house looked ripe for a haunting, Dean thought as he pulled the Impala around to the backyard. And some part of him wished he was working that type of job, that there weren't shades of gray on what they were about to do. But like Sam had said, the men had crossed the line, would come after Sam if they knew he had been the one to end Walt and Roy. And Dean wasn't going to let them have the chance to learn that fact or act on it, would end it here and now. Would keep Sam safe because that was his job, would always be his job, whether Sam liked it or not.

Climbing out of the car and heading for the back stairs, he nearly jumped when a voice spoke directly in his ear, via the ear mic.

"Dean, someone's hiding in the grass, your four o'clock," Finch tersely provided as the mini camera picked up the movement.

And Dean could feel the bull's-eye on his back, was going to play it nonchalant until his spidey senses had him ducking just in time to miss a bullet to the back of the head, a bullet that thunked into the boarded up back door of the house instead.

Exposed and out in the open, Dean bolted up the stairs, plowed into the boarded up door with his shoulder and tumbled through the doorway. He impacted with the floor as bullets streaked by over his head. Using his foot, he kicked the door shut and crawled to the relative safety of the wall. But he was still on all fours when a gun barrel came to rest against the back of his head and mud covered brown boots came into his limited view.

"Aww, did you actually think you were going to arrive early and set us up?" the disembodied voice taunted.

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TBC

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Thanks for those who gave encouraging reviews on the last chapter!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	11. Chapter 11

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 11

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Sensing movement in the woods, Reese dropped to the ground in the high grass, crawled a few meters before scampering to his feet in the cover of the trees. Stealthily moving through the woods, he pressed his back against a tree.

His breath barely making a noise, his heart controlled and beating a normal tempo, he waited, knew that whoever was there was coming closer to his position. He let them pass before he stepped out of the shadows, slid his arm around their neck and applied quick, merciless pressure.

Lowering the corpse soundlessly to the ground, he headed in the direction of the other hunter he knew was skulking in the untamed acreage around the house, their intent to kill Dean Winchester. His heart jolted in his chest when the stillness of the country air was shattered by gunfire. "Finch! What's happening?!" he demanded through their two way ear wig connection even as he abandoned the notion of stealth and full out ran toward the 2nd man's location.

The hunter detected his approach at the last second, turned and struck out with his knife. Reese dodged left, didn't even flinch when the blade scored a path across his right bicep but kept coming right for the man. He barely slowed down as he landed a punch to the man's jaw that sent him falling to the ground. Hastily following through with a strike of his palm to the man's back that would ensure he wasn't going to be getting back up without a stretcher, John then ran full out for the house. "Finch! Where's Dean!?"

There was an audible sigh of relief before Finch's voice announced, "He's in the house. I don't think he's…." But then he broke off and Reese knew better than to think it was because something wonderful had happened. Harold confirmed it a moment later, "John, he has Dean."

"Who?!" John asked, struggling to use the weak moonlight to guide his way through the woods.

Harold's voice shook with dread as he clarified, "The man who left that message on Dean's phone, that if Dean stuck his head out of his hole, he planned on shooting it off."

Reese silently cursed, remembered that threat and the callousness in the man's tone, had known then the man wouldn't stop until he killed Dean or died trying. "Yeah and he wanted Krissy to watch him kill Dean, to earn her education."

There were a few moments of tense silence and Reese knew Harold was listening to whatever was happening to Dean. In the meantime, Reese had his own distraction, namely a man popping up on his right, spraying the area he was in a second ago with bullets. Hitting the ground, Reese rapidly crawled forward in the high grass until he could see the house's front door. But he knew it was a kill zone, the no man's land between where he presently was and the doorway, that the lone man would easily pick him off.

Fear echoed in Harold's next declaration. "John, he's not going to call his men in, wait for an audience. He's going to kill Dean now!"

Without thought for his own safety, John surged off the ground and ran for the door. He startled as a rifle shot vibrated through the air, a shot that didn't come close to him, had him sparing a glance behind him just in time to see the man in the grass staring down at his chest before sinking to his knees and then dropping out of sight in the high grass.

Having a good idea who his guardian angel had been, John kicked open the front door and did a forward roll into the house. His unexpected entrance got him within touching distance of the hunter stationed in the room, allowed him to reach out, grab the man's gun by the barrel and rip the weapon from his grasp. Landing an elbow to the man's temple and then a right cross, John then stood up and stepped over the unconscious man.

Heading for the next room, Reese whispered to Finch, "Guide me to Dean."

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"Aww, did you actually think you were going to arrive early and set us up?" the disembodied voice taunted.

"Well, actually yeah," Dean retorted before he was yanked to his feet by the scuff of his jacket and shoved against the wall, the gun now digging into his gut. Face to face with his opponent, Dean smiled at the grey-haired, sixty year old man whose body was fit but his face was haggard. "Jeff, the years have not been kind to you."

"Still the smart mouthed kid you were when you were hiding behind your daddy's shadow."

Dean shrugged, gave a brassy smile, "Can't improve on perfection."

Jeff pressed the gun harder into Dean's gut, seemed to enjoy Winchester's wince of pain as he leaned close enough for his breath to hit Dean in the face, his blue eyes to sear into Dean's. "What would your daddy think of you now, huh? Killing other hunters? Making alliances with the stuff he died trying to kill? He's rolling in his grave. Would probably put a bullet in you himself, knowing what you've become, something not even human. Something that doesn't even have the courage to die when it's time is up 'stead goes bargaining his soul away for just another breath."

Dean paled at the other man's words. Didn't want to think how true they were, how disgusted his father would be at the man he had become, the decisions he had made. But when backed into a corner, he did what he always did, he provoked his opponent, swore to go down fighting. "Yeah and your buddies Roy and Walt, they were real honorable guys. Shooting a pair of unarmed, hung over, humans. Hunters! Wow. Give them a gold star."

"We all know that Sam …"

"..is my brother," Dean growled between his teeth. "The son of your _friend_, John Winchester. Guess friendship means as much to you as honor among hunters does."

Whatever comeback Jeff would have been made was sidetracked by the sound of multiple gunshots coming from the front lawn of the house. Jeff nearly beamed at the sound. "You were trying to buy some time for your friend outside, hoping we didn't see you drop him off on the way in. Well, that's him outside, either bleeding out or already dead."

Instead of looking alarmed, Dean gave a wolf smile, lowly refuted, "Oh, I don't think so. He's a lot tougher than he dresses."

But then a rifle shot rang out, sounding merciless and final.

Jeff shook his head, almost looked remorseful. "You shouldn't have involved him, Dean." Tightening his finger on the trigger of his gun, he darkly predicted, "He won't be coming to save you."

"No, that's my job," Sam menacingly vowed, as he came down the stairs from the house's second floor, his gun targeting the point between Jeff's shoulder blades.

Immediately, Jeff swung Dean around so that the older Winchester was in front of him, providing a shield against any thoughts of retribution the youngest Winchester was cooking up. "Sam Winchester. I was wondering when we would see you. I mean, hunter myth is it's impossible to see one Winchester and not the other. When one goes off the grid, so does the other. One of you reportedly dies and comes back to life, the other pulls the same magic. Cute, really. Like you can't stand to break up the act. Like Abbott and Costello. Martin and Lewis."

"I think of us more like Rocky and Bullwinkle. Me being Rocky, of course," Dean smart mouthed, grunted and struggled to stay on his feet when Jeff landed a fist into his wound.

Sam's eyes sparked with fury at the abuse to his brother and he took a menacing step forward, snarled through clenched teeth, "Let him go!"

But Jeff chuckled mirthlessly behind Dean's back. "And what?! You'll let me live?! I know better than that. But I'm not alone here, Sam." Then he raised his voice, called out, "I got the Winchesters. Come on out!"

Sam's smirk made Jeff's blood run cold, even before the younger Winchester spoke. "Oh you mean the guy upstairs with the rifle, we met earlier…about half an hour ago ….when I came down from the attic after I heard you guys arrive. And I seriously wouldn't count on the guy by the front door _coming to save you_ either," sneeringly throwing Jeff's words back at him, proving that the tables had turned.

Dean winked at Sam, sarcastically tossed over his shoulder to Jeff, "And you thought this was your trap."

Angrily, Jeff pulled Dean backwards, into another room. "I'll kill him," he hissed at Sam. "You wanna watch your brother die, Sam?! Watch his blood stain the floor?!"

"The blood will be yours if you don't drop your gun and let him go," Reese vowed with unveiled lethal intent as he pressed his gun barrel to the back of Jeff's neck.

"Ok, now. Seems we got ourselves a Mexican standoff," Jeff drawled as if he were amused, caught as he was between two gun sights. As if to prove that he had leverage, he dug his gun into Dean's side, hard enough to elicit a moan of pain from Winchester.

Lowering his gun, Sam stepped closer to his brother and Jeff. "You know Dean didn't kill Walt and Roy. I did."

"Keep coming closer if you want to wear your brother's brain matter," Jeff threatened, gripping his gun tighter.

But Sam didn't heed the warning, kept steadily approaching. "They begged for their lives. Walt said that I was alive so what was the big dead, why kill them when no harm was done. No harm?!" Sam bitterly repeated, the timber of his voice showcasing the pain he still bore, the level of harm that the two men's actions had inflicted on him.

"Stop moving!" Jeff shouted, trying to take a step back only to have Reese press his gun harder into his neck and lay a nearly bone crushing hand on his shoulder.

Reese ached to pull the trigger, to put a bullet in Jeff's brain stem, to end the threat but he had met men like this Jeff before, men who didn't mind all that much dying, as long as they took out their target with their last breath. And Reese couldn't take that risk, wouldn't take it, not with Dean's life at stake.

Ignoring Jeff's order, Sam didn't falter, kept coming. "You know what I told Walt and Roy right before I put a bullet in their hearts? I said I was going to kill them and you know why? Because they killed Dean…..just like you're threatening to do," his fury, his pitilessness at someone, anyone who dared to threaten his brother unmasked in his unspoken but unmistakable threat.

Something in the younger Winchester's eyes chilled Jeff to the core, made him understand that the greatest threat wasn't Dean or the man at his back. Without warning, he swung his gun toward Sam but he never got a chance to fire. Giving a startled gasp of pain, he choked on his next breath and then collapsed to the floor, a knife still protruding from his side, courtesy of Dean.

Quickly stepping forward and wrapping a steadying hand around Dean's arm, Reese looked down at the dying man then up at Dean. "Apparently he didn't know the Winchester proclivity for knives."

"Guess he didn't know us as well as he thought he did," Dean said, coldly watching his father's one time friend draw his last breath.

Reese looked up to Sam and he could no longer see the harsh veneer of a man capable of killing another man in defense of his brother. Instead, he saw a little brother there, looking nearly weak in the knees with relief that his big brother hadn't been taken away from him.

"He knew us well enough to know that where ever you are, Dean, I'm going to be there too," Sam declared as his eyes held his brother's, vowed that that statement would always be true.

And Reese didn't spend one second doubting Sam's pledge.

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TBC ~ Epilogue to follow

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Thanks for every review! And thanks to everyone who's been reading this story.

I'm hoping to have the epilogue up tomorrow.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	12. Chapter 12

Dead Man's Keeper

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or any rights to Person of Interest or Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in posting! FFnet was mean and wouldn't let me post when I had planned to. So now here's the final chapter and I've got to admit, I'm a little sad it's over. This has been a fun story to share because of all of you lovely reviewers! You guys rock!

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Chapter 12

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"John, everyone OK?" Harold worriedly inquired into Reese's ear.

"Everyone's fine, Finch," Reese reassured, wasn't surprised to find that Sam was there, latching onto his brother, starting to tug him toward the exit. Without protest, John relinquished his hold on Dean, knew that his charge was in good hands. "We're going to need Fusco to do a little creative storytelling and to corrupt any findings of Dean and Sam's DNA at the scene."

"I'm sure he's up to the challenge," Finch drolly replied. "Now I have a hotel booked for the Winchesters for tonight. I think they will find it sufficient."

Coming to a stop at the back door, John watched Sam rest Dean against the Impala for support before giving a squeeze to the back of his brother's neck as he leaned in close. He didn't hear their words, didn't have to, especially when Dean nodded his head in the affirmative, reassuring his brother that he was alright. "Not sure they'll be sticking around, Harold." He had come to understand that the brothers lived their life not so much at anyplace but always with each other. Unless they had a misunderstanding like they apparently had right before Dean's social security number popped up on their radar.

"What? No, they can't travel…Dean's wounded. He should rest up in a bed not stuff himself in to some antique car that probably doesn't have shock absorbers," Harold protested.

"Finch, I would rethink your choice of words about Dean's car. If I'm not mistaken, he feels the same way about that car that you do about your massive spying computer," John advised with a smirk, though it would be amusing to see Dean's reaction to Finch's antique car quip.

"Nevertheless, they should stay at least the night so we can determine that the threat is over for them," Finch persisted.

"I don't know if the threat is ever going to be over for them Finch," John sadly remarked, had only marveled at the cache of weapons that the Impala's secret trunk compartment had housed. Weapons that weren't the most efficient to take a life with. And Dean had offered no explanation, had simply met his eyes, read the surprise and the dark shaft of comprehension and then he had pulled a gun free, handed it to his brother and closed the trunk.

"Are you trying to be cryptic, Mr. Reese?" Finch drawled, his friend's pessimistic statement not doing that much to quiet his worry for the two brothers.

"Nope," was John's only reply before he came down the back stairs of the house, joined the brothers. "We know someone on the police force, they'll clean the scene, make it as if you were never here and arrest anyone still breathing. By tomorrow we should know if there's anyone else coming after you. In the meantime, Finch booked you a room for the night."

"That's nice but not necessary," Sam began to refuse at the same time Dean offered up, "Thanks but we'll be going."

"Contrary to what you might think, Finch doesn't make a habit of requesting people to _stay_ after a case is done. Fact is, usually we're giving out new identities and escorting them from town. So I think he would take it as a great insult if you turned down his hospitality." Reese then watched as the brothers looked to one another, hoped they agreed to stay, solely for Finch's sake of course.

Coming to a decision, Dean and Sam said in synch. "Ok."

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The hotel was nestled a ways off the highway but was far above the usual standard of accommodations that the Winchesters frequented. Dean whistled as he got his first look at their motel room, complete with living room and two bedrooms on either side and an expansive window that overlooked the valley. "Finch can be our travel agent anytime he wants to."

"He does have impeccable taste," Reese concurred as he did a sweep of the rooms, glad to find them void of gun wielding "hunters." Then joining the brothers in the living room, he announced, "I'll take the couch and keep watch…"

But Dean held up his hand. "You can stow the Kevin Costner routine. The stalker's dead or arrested, the siblings are reunited and I'm all set to resume my fabulous career. I might even write a song about you."

"Speaking of your career…" John slowly drawled, eyes holding Dean's unblinking stare even as he saw Sam tense. "Are you ever going to tell me what that is?"

"Sure," Dean answered, too quickly before his wolfish smile emerged. "Right after you tell me how you knew I was targeted by those hunters."

John smiled, enjoying the give and take between him and Dean. "I don't think that's in your best interest."

"Ditto," Dean triumphantly shot back.

And Sam remained a closed book as well, accepted his brother's choice without one shred of hesitancy.

It was harder than John thought it would be, to not tell them about the Machine, to not let them be part of what he and Finch were. Found it was even harder than it was to keep saying "no" to Carter's inquiries. Maybe because he sensed they weren't all that much different than he was, were in the world looking out, were in the shadows but weren't part of them, were good hearted guys with good intentions who had somehow found themselves in the crosshairs of every law enforcement group in the US. Were maybe strong enough, smart enough, skilled enough to learn the truth and stay alive. But he couldn't take that chance, no matter how much he wanted their trust.

"I don't know about you two, but I'm starving. Let's get room service," he deflected, spying the menu by the phone, he headed that way. That didn't mean he missed Dean mouthing almost giddily to Sam "room service?!"

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It was a picturesque spot along the highway where Finch met with the Winchesters and Reese as the sun come up over the suburbia valley. "Well, the police have picked up the three survivors at the house. For their past crimes as well as weapon possession and ties to the murder of their fellow associates, they will probably be sentenced to a few years," Harold conveyed but there was a worried look he shot to Reese before he continued, eyes holding Dean's. "And though I didn't uncover any more associates of theirs still on the loose, as determined as those men were to kill you, it's not inconceivable that they will come after you when they are released from prison."

But it was Sam who gave a reply, his eyes on his brother instead of Reese and Finch. "Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Dean's eyebrows rose in surprise at his brother's declaration. "_We_?"

Instead of being angry at the doubt in his brother's tone, Sam smirked as he affectionately stressed, "Yeah, _we_, Dean. Meaning you and me. I didn't choose to be without you for a year and I'm not letting you ditch me again. And if you have a problem with that…tough."

Dean shrugged like it didn't matter to him but he couldn't hold back his warm smile any more than Sam could not return it. Then remembering they weren't alone, Dean turned to Reese. "It hurts my ego to say this but…thanks for saving my life," and he extended his hand to the man who had been his bodyguard for the past three days.

Shaking Dean's hand, John sincerely replied, "You're welcome." But as he dropped Dean's hand he tacked on with a knowing smirk, "I guess it's too much to ask for you to not antagonize people who have the skills to kill you."

Dean's brash smile was almost answer enough. "Where would be the fun in that?!" Then looking to Finch, Dean's smile faded into earnestness, he barely noticed that Sam and Reese paired off a few feet away. "I was wrong, you know. You're not a bad Tubbs to his Crockett, did some nice work with the lamp back there in the motel."

Finch gave a snort of laughter, depreciatingly denied, "That's hardly Tubbs like finesse but .." his eyes turned as serious as Dean's. "..I didn't want that man to kill you."

"That makes two of us," Dean jokingly rejoined with a wide smile.

But Harold's solemnness wouldn't be diverted, instead he reached out, wrapped his hand around Dean's wrist and met the other man's eyes steadily. "With you, I discounted all the facts, went with…._my gut. _And it wasn't wrong. You were worth saving," and he noted Dean's discomfort at the praise, thought the man was about to deny his words but Harold pressed on. "Not only for your sake but for his…" and his eyes traveled to Sam. Then he focused again on Dean, saw that Dean was wearing a startled expression, like he had just told him something he hadn't known. Deciding not to press that issue, to let Sam continue to beat that knowledge into his brother's head, Harold teased, "It's also good news that Sam has comparable skills with Mr. Reese when it comes to being able to protect you."

That earned him an affronted look from Dean. "Who says I'll need protecting?!"

"My gut. Mr. Reese's gut. Sam's expression when he learned you were being targeted by those men. Your police report..…" Finch began ticking off the evidence.

"Yeah, yeah, alright, you made your point," Dean cut in but there was mirth and warmth in the look he leveled at the man who had helped him stay alive the past few days. And then he reached out, shook Finch's hand. "Thanks. Though I could have done fine on my own."

Harold smiled, sarcastically drawled, "Sure you could have. Now you sound like John."

"I've had worse compliments," Dean sallied back with a smile.

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Abandoning his view of the valley, Sam faced Reese, held out his hand. "Thanks again for protecting Dean when I wasn't here."

Shaking Sam's hand and then releasing it, John replied, "It's what Finch and I do."

"Save reputed serial killers?" Sam skeptically shot back, smirk lightening his words.

Reese merely tilted his head. "When it calls for it, yes. And if you or Dean ever need Finch and I again, call this number," and he handed Sam a card with only a phone number typed on it.

Sam took the card, didn't question the anonymity of it but did look up at Reese in surprise. "You get that I killed Walt and Roy, that some of the charges Dean's accused of…he did, though not for the reasons the police think he did."  
But Reese didn't rescind his offer, only leveled a gaze of understanding at Sam. "Sometimes taking a life is the only way to save one and sometimes the people that the world fears are the ones that help them the most."

Sam felt more pieces come together, concluded, "Like you and Finch?"

"I'm more the scary one, but don't underestimate Finch if he gets to a computer," Reese replied with a small knowing smile.

Sam smiled and nodded his head. "Yeah, I already figured that out." Then he started to walk away only to halt and turn back to face Reese. For a moment, he said nothing, then, as if a decision was made, he offered, "If you ever run into something…._weird_ ….call us. I'm assuming Finch has our numbers."

"All twelve of them," John smugly returned to which Sam smirked and walked away before John could ask him to elaborate on "weird." He watched in amusement as Sam used his long legs to reach the Impala's driver's side door just before Dean, brazenly leaned against it like he would stay planted there all day if he had to, didn't even blink under his big brother's glare.

"Sam, I'm driving," Dean growled.

Sam gave a laughing refusal of "No, you're not, Dean."

"Sam, I drove to the house last night," Dean pointed out, his frustration clear.

"That's because it wasn't even an hour's drive, Dean."

"I'm fine," Dean insisted.

"Concussion, bullet wound, Dean," Sam recounted before his gaze and tone softened. "You said you wanted this, you and me hitting the road, doing…our thing. Well this is us doing that but you have to let me take some of the weight, Dean. That's what you do when you're part of a team."

Dean fell silent and Reese feared that the other man would rail at his brother's desire to play protector. And Dean did, in his own cockamamie way.

"Have you been watching sports movies again? What is it this time, 'Glory Road'?" but he was shuffling around the car, obediently heading for the passenger side door. But before he got in and claimed the passenger seat, Sam called out over the roof to him.

"Now get in the car, Whitney. I think I have one of your greatest hits on my IPOD – 'I will always love you.' I can put in on a loop so we can hear it again and again."

"You try and I'm tossing your IPOD out the window instead of in the backseat," Dean threatened. Then his eyes went to Reese and he gave him a nod before he sank gratefully into the car seat and almost immediately rested his head back against the seat's leather interior.

Sam turned to the two men who had saved his brother's life. Suddenly, he understood how the people that he and Dean saved felt, the wholly overwhelming prospect of conveying just how thankful you were that someone saved what was most precious to you.

All Sam could manage was a misty eyed smile and a nod of his head.

Because some things, there weren't even words for.

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Harold gave a wave as the Winchesters pulled their antique car onto the road and sped down the two lane highway. John stood at his side, a silent but contemplating figure.

"Finch, did the Machine pick Dean's number because he was in danger or because he was a wanted serial killer?" Reese asked, eyes still tracking the Impala.

"I don't know. I guess it's a good thing for Dean that you and I have an affinity for dead people," Finch drawled with humor.

"Dead," John repeated with puzzlement. "That's one thing that's been sticking in my head, Harold. Sam said Walt and Roy killed Dean."

"Sam thought Dean was dead for close to a year," Harold recalled. "I guess that's why he had that slip of the tongue."

"I'm not so sure it was, Finch," Reese slowly refuted, brow creasing in thought as he turned to his partner. "Dean said that Walt and Roy _killed_ him first."

Realizing that his friend was earnest in his statement, Finch scoffed, "What are you saying? He really died, then what, miraculously came back to life?!"

"Honestly, Harold, I'm not so sure the Grim Reaper himself wouldn't lose against them," John remarked before he headed to the car, Sam's peculiar words about when he and Harold should call _them_ for help ricocheting in his head. Weird…like someone who didn't stay dead?

Climbing behind the wheel, Finch started the car, aimed it back to the city. But he kept shooting looks to his silent partner, tried to gauge Reese's emotions but to no avail. "Another number came up yesterday," he said without preamble.

That had Reese's head swinging his way. "You give it to Carter or Fusco?"

Keeping his eyes on the road, Finch said, "Neither. We were already handling it."

"Wait, Dean's number came up again?" Reese incredulously posed, turning in his seat a little to see Finch's profile.

"Not Dean's. Sam's," Finch announced, sparing a glance to read his friend's expression.

"Because Sam was in danger too or because he was gunning for the people after Dean?" Reese asked, even though he didn't think Finch knew the answer. But Finch surprised him, gave him a look that was careful, measured, like he feared that his next words would hurt him. "What is it, Finch?"

And Harold wanted to tell John that John's own number had come up too, the day that Jessica Ardnt had died. Jessica Ardnt whose social security number was one of those numbers that had plagued him for over a year, that popped up almost daily, was a taunting computer anomaly. Until he put the pieces together, understood that the threat to her was real, was there with her all the time, was her own husband.

Though Harold had the knowledge that she was in danger, he had no way to act on it, no good way. He had talked to her once, posed as a government aid worker who randomly visited homes in her neighborhood, had told her that if she was living in fear, she should tell someone, an aid agency, a family member, a friend. That she didn't deserve to be hurt.

And she had taken his advice, had called someone: John Reese. But Reese, like Finch, had not been able to save her. John had gotten there too late. And he had nearly given up on living after that. It was like Peter Arndt had not only killed Jessica, but had killed the best part of John Reese too.

Swallowing, Harold read John's expectant expression and formed his words carefully. "I think sometimes, when someone's life intersects so strongly with another person's, that when one life is …in jeopardy, that other person's very existence is too."

Stilling, John looked out the windshield, didn't speak for so long that Finch was afraid he had crossed a line he shouldn't have.

It made Harold nervously ramble on. "Sam said when he thought Dean was dead, that he didn't even know who he was without his brother. So maybe his number came up…"

"I know why his number came up, Harold," John quietly interjected, a twinge of sorrow in his tone. "If he would have lost Dean, he would have lost himself, been capable of ….anything…and nothing."

Worriedly shooting a glance to John, Harold declared, "So it would seem we saved not just Dean, but Sam too." To his relief, John's lips turned up into a small smile and his friend looked at him with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Oh, Dean would love to hear that Sam was the one needing our protection instead of him," John lightly joked, knew that it would go a long way in restoring some of Dean's wounded pride.

"And I believe Sam would pay you to NOT tell Dean that," Harold volleyed back with a chuckle.

"Probably," Reese agreed before he asked, "Harold, has your computer ever flagged something weird?"

Looking from the road to his friend, Harold innocently asked, "Define weird."

And Reese couldn't hold back the small chuckle at his friend's comeback. It made him itch to call Sam up and ask him Finch's question because he had thought he knew what weird was already.

Weird was an ex-CIA agent and a computer genius teaming up to save random people. Weird was two brothers who were accused murderers but seemed to make a habit of saving other people's lives. Weird for him and Finch, that was just the order of the day. And that was just fine with him because sometimes things were at their very best when they were at their most unpredictable.

Like finding out that sometimes the bad guys were the good guys and some dead guys …they were worth dying to save.

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The End

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Thanks to everyone who so warmly welcomed this little crossover! You made it so worth my while to share this story with you.

Wishing you a MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Cheryl W.


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